


Well, As Days Go

by BondedWings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Family, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hurt/Comfort, Meme, Multi, OCs - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Randomness, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 23,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BondedWings/pseuds/BondedWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days are simple, some days are not, but all of them are worth remembering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Laeta Lavellan: Fashion Sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, honesty time! I have truly wanted to do a collection of dribbles for the longest time about my Inquisitors, BUT because of my lack of an attention span and general laziness, it hasn't happened.
> 
> ...Until now. Dun-dun-DA!
> 
> I will make no promises about the frequency of updates, mostly because I know if I start making promises, it'll start feeling like work and that will kill the fun of this for me.
> 
> Please read, review, etc. I'll be introducing my children one-by-one (they're all very different, so please be nice and don't throw things) and look for additional tags, characters and pairings as time goes on.
> 
> So, first up (for the next 4 chapters)! Laeta Lavellan. My canon elf warrior who wields great sword, silliness and cheerful demeanor all with equal skill. Enjoy!  
> ..and yes, this is normal for her.

The Inquisitor was in the Undercroft because _of course_ she was. She was not the most adept of smiths, she didn’t hold a candle to Harritt’s work or (Maker forbid!) Dagna’s, but she was enthusiastic and always kept at it. She liked making things for people, liked making armor and weapons that look good and feel good and keep their wearer and user safe in battle.

All this devotion to her team however, meant that sometimes her own equipment choices came across as… ill-considered.

Laeta was putting the finishing touches on Cole’s new leathers when they ambushed her. Their resident spirit boy had expressed a rare interest in the shade of teal of one of Sera’s nicked throw pillows that made lining his new collar with ring velvet impossible to resist. At the sudden amount of noise directed her way, Laeta looked up to find Cassandra and Dorian glaring at her. Well, Cassandra was glaring. Dorian looked to be trapped somewhere between exasperated and amused.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra crossed her arms and dug in her heels for the battle that was surely ahead. “This needs to stop. You cannot continue fighting in such inappropriate armor.”

“Frankly, my dear, I’m rather amazed we’ve gotten this far along without someone running you through.” Dorian added. “I don’t know whether that signifies the brilliance of your abilities or the ineptitude of our enemies.”

“You are a Champion! A warrior who has been trained to withstand the strongest of blows!”

“Aw thanks, Cass!” Laeta beamed before returning her attention to the tinting table. Maybe she could use the leftover dragon webbing for Vivienne’s shoulder pads. “You always know how to make me smile.”

She really had met the most expressive people. Dorian struggled valiantly (and failed) to keep a straight face, while Cassandra’s only seemed to get stonier.

“You know what I mean, Inquisitor. Do not pretend that you do not.”

“I really don’t get why you’re so worried. My armor works just fine. Gurn hide or great bear hide?” she turned to Dorian, holding up a sample of each material to the man for judgement.

Dorian hummed thoughtfully. “Bear, definitely bear. It doesn’t matter how many times you tan a gurn, the smell never quite comes out.” He leaned against the worktable to meet his friend at her level. Of course this put him in far closer contact with the sooty metals than he was comfortable with, but sacrifices must be made for the greater good. The greater good this time revolving around keeping his dearest friend (and the truth of that word still set off sparks of astonishment in his brain) from dying due to an embarrassing fashion feux pas.

“Didn’t we recently acquire a truly remarkable set of battlemaster armor in the belly of that ghastly high dragon in the Emprise du Lion?” he pressed. “I seem to recall being frozen at least three times that day, but you were so pleased with our success, I only complained twice.” Within the hour, but it was still an accomplishment.

Laeta blinked. Her enormous, owl-like eyes going wide with apparent innocence. It may have even been convincing to someone who hadn’t witnessed its effects on other quite so often as the members of her Inner Circle had. “But it looks so much better on Bull.”

Cassandra ran out of patience.

“You’re the Inquisitor!” she barked. “How will it look if you fall to Corypheus simply because you were too stubborn to set aside your _druffalo leather vanguard armor!_ ”

Laeta stared at the Seeker as though she’d grown a second head before picking up her armor from its place amongst the others that waited for crafting and handing it over… which was right about the time when it started to dawn on Dorian, as the seemingly light pieces of material made Cassandra stagger as they were dropped into her arms.

“This is…” Dorian prodded at the coat’s breast while Cassandra gaped as she finally steadied herself enough to take a proper look.

“Battlemaster armor. Made out of dragon scales,” the elf explained. “Plus bone for the mail and avvar twill for the sash. White’s not really my color, so I tinted the leather with druffalo hide and dyed the sash with lustrous cotton.” She leaned in toward her two dumbstruck friends and whispered as if sharing a secret. “I was thinking about adding a dawnstone sheen for the mail too, but Bull works the pretty colors much better then I do.”

She laughed with such enthusiasm that it got Dorian chuckling and even made Cassandra let out an embarrassed huff. Really. By now they really should know that things were rarely as simple as they seemed when it came to the Inquisitor.

“I appreciate you guys looking out for me, I really do.” Laeta took back her armor with startling ease and set it down with a ‘thud’. “But since my fashion choices are no longer a concern, I have a serious question for you, Cass.”

She dug into a nearby chest before popping back up with something in each hand.

“Heartwood or White Wyvern Hide?”


	2. Laeta Lavellan: Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laeta's back! This time with dear Solas. I've got another Inquisitor for all those Solavellan feels don't worry, but Laeta is not she. She adores the man yes, but they've got more of a brother/sister, hahren/da'len, lethallin/lethallan relationship.
> 
> Here's a taste of that for ya!  
> Ooh, complications...

“So we truly have rediscovered the Sulevin Blade.”

Laeta looked behind her to find Solas making his way down the steps of the undercroft in a rare leave of the rotunda. She smiled in welcome and waved the newly forged sword, courtesy of Dagna, over for him to see.

“After what we went through in the Cradle to get it, I’m glad it was possible to repair, even if it’s not completely the original.” She let her eyes roam from the pommel to the tip and the empty space just waiting for that superb cleansing rune she’d been saving. “That temple put up a fight… Do you think the spirits will return to the Fade now that the sword’s gone?”

Solas shook his head. “It is possible, since the spirits that lingered likely remained due to the vengeful emotions etched onto the sword by its previous wielders. However, the Cradle of Sulevin itself carries just as many forgotten memories. It’s possible it may continue to bind the spirits there, even with the sword gone.”

Laeta shook her head sadly, and once again Solas was reminded that despite the Inquisitor’s appearance, despite how carefree and light-hearted she came across, Laeta Lavellan was the kind of person who felt everything, even though she never let it stick. She worked through the problem, the pain instead of letting it fester until you couldn’t tell where the hurt ended and the elf began.

It depended on the person, after all.

“I understand revenge, but they let their hatred warp for their enemies warp them until they were no better.” She stroke the hilt absently, not noticing the far-away look in her friend’s eyes. “I don’t think they really _listened_  to the stories people told about the blade. They just heard that it was powerful, not what that power was meant to do.”

“And you still plan to wield it. Despite all it’s been used for.” Solas’ gaze had drifted to her left land, where a now softer green still occasionally pulsed.

“Yes,” she said simply. “This sword has served many purposes, not all of them good, but hopefully now it will serve another.” She stroked her palm along the body of the blade, lush nevarrite shining in the light of the late afternoon, before settling it comfortably on her back and fixing the older elf with a steady grin that made his expression ease and his heart tense at the same time with her words.

“Ours.”


	3. Laeta Lavellan: Home Is Where...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, yes I admit it. You'll find out who Laeta's with this time. Of course, if you're one of those readers who actually reads tags (props!) you probably already know.
> 
> ...
> 
> I have zero regrets :)

The Iron Bull stirred from his sleep as the morning light flickered over his eyes, different colored squares shining in from the stained glass windows. One of these days, he really should tell the Boss to install some curtains. The woman herself was splayed across his front, face nuzzled into his chest and one hand over his heartbeat as she continued to dream. Laeta smiled in her sleep as he lifted a large hand to stroke down the expanse of her back, freckles mixed with gooseflesh in the cool morning air. Unable to resist, Bull let his hand trail lower until it rested, comfortably cupping her ass. His other hand lifted to trail lightly over Laeta’s ear, hitting that sensitive spot right bellow the tip.

The elf’s smile became a grin as Bull’s ministrations pulled her from the Fade. Enormous eyes opening to find her lover smirking at her, had Laeta leaning further into his grip as she let out a happy sigh.

“Good morning,” she yawned, mouth open wide and muffled as she wiggled around to get some movement back into her limbs, sore from the exertions of the night before. Laeta always matched him toe for toe in the bedroom, surrendering herself over to him completely, yet always ready and raring for whatever sex-capade they could think of and last night had been no exception.

 _Fuck_  he was getting hard just remembering how she’d looked; sweaty and glorious, riding him like she had been born for nothing else. Chasing her pleasure with abandon and responding wholeheartedly to every touch, smack and tease.

Which is why, when she inadvertently rubbed up against his half-hard cock, she really only had herself to blame for his body's reaction.

He let out a low groan, reaching down to grip her hips, “Boss, keep moving around like that and we’re gonna have a problem.”

“Oh? You mean I didn’t tucker out the big bad Iron Bull?” she teased, raising herself up so she was straddling him. From where he lay, his head propped up against the pillows lining the headboard, Bull had the perfect view of her fantastic tits and the half-dragon tooth necklace that matched the slightly larger one hanging around his own neck. She never took it off and it did things to him, knowing how accustomed and comfortable she had become to its weight.

“Don’t you worry about me, kadan,” Bull chuckled as she moved above him, his hands working to keep her movements at a steady pace, never letting her rush on ahead. “I’ve got more than enough energy left. The boys need their morning work-out, after all.”

Her ruffled auburn hair teasing her nipples as she rubbed herself back and forth against Bull’s growing hardness. It wasn’t bad at all to give the Boss what she needed, especially if what she needed was to play.

“Well, then,” Laeta murmured, looking unconvincingly innocent. “We can’t have you going off to train all tense.” She leaned forward to press a kiss against her lover’s lips, letting him hold her there until his taste lingered when she pulled away. “What would Krem say?”

“That I didn’t work hard enough last night and I’m one lucky bastard. Watchword?”

Laeta regarded him fondly. “Katoh.”

After a few more minutes of steady grinding, Bull finally gave Laeta the freedom to move as she pleased. As Laeta raised herself up and lowered herself down onto him, still slick from the night before, she never let her gaze waver from the Bull’s even as a low keen escaped her throat. She always looked at him as though he was the best thing she’d ever seen. Big and strong and beautiful and delicious and safe and good.

Her breathing was already getting heavy as he felt his balls press up against where they joined, a strange mixture of arousal and pure joy filling her face that made his heart ‘thud’ painfully within his chest. After all this time, he was starting to get used to it.

“Kadan” Bull rumbled, all drowsiness forgotten as he helped her steady herself. 

My heart.

 _“Ara vhen'an,”_ she replied, reaching out to stroke her fingers over his lips, across his cheek and along the scars of his left eye before she began to move.

My home.


	4. Laeta Lavellan: Is Divinity Required?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here stands Laeta's viewpoints on faith. Let's just call them... unorthodox by Thedas' standards shall we?
> 
> And yes, she's an emotional, touchy-feely kinda woman who both confuses and endears herself to most everyone.

It had been another sleepless night for the Commander. The lack of the lyrium tearing at his mind like a bear might claw at a carcass. Seeking comfort, he had retreated to to small shrine housed in the gardens, Andraste’s stone arms stretched out as if in welcome.

 _“Maker, my enemies are abundant._  
_Many are those who rise up against me._  
_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_  
_Should they set themselves against me.”_

“Talking to her really helps you, doesn’t it?”

Cullen whirled around, hand already on the hilt of his sword to draw it out before registering that it was the Inquisitor. Her hands raised in a pacifying manner and a sheepish grin on her face. “Ah, sorry, Cullen. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no it’s quite alright. You just startled me.” How someone who carried such an enormous sword could walk around on such light feet was a mystery. Not for the first time, Cullen wondered how the Inquisitor would have managed life as a rogue. He slowly returned to his kneeling position. “Prayer has always given me comfort, even after I left the Templar Order.”

It was quiet then for few minutes, as he completed the last few verses in his head.

 _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_  
_I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._  
_I shall endure._  
_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

He lifted his head to see Laeta looking at the Prophet’s visage with a gentle curiosity. As though the statue were just another person for her to talk to and befriend. “I assume though, that it’s not the same for you?”

“Not really, no. I mean, I’ve listened the stories, heard the Chant a few times. She was pretty incredible, don’t get me wrong, but...”

He nodded, taking note of her Dalish tattoos ( _Vallaslin_ , she had called them _vallaslin_ ) and remembered her explaining its meaning to him back in Haven.

“The elves have their own gods, I’ve heard.”

“We do, but I don’t pray to them much either.” Laeta shrugged her shoulders, looking remarkably nonchalant for someone who was treading very close to blasphemy... of multiple kinds. “Expect when shit happens. Then, it’s always nice to have someone to be angry at, and cursing Andruil after a bad hunt was always a good stress reliever.”

“So...” Cullen started, it slowly dawning on the man that the leader of the most holy venture in all of Thedas, might possibly be an atheist. “You don’t believe in any higher power? Not even your own?”

“I believe they must have existed,” Laeta explained, bending over to right a candle stick that had fallen over on the alter. She used another candle to relight it, cupping her hand around to give the ember the chance to grow.

“History gets twisted around a lot, but there’s always something to start it. But I don’t think the Creators were gods exactly. Powerful? Definitely. Something not quite normal? Absolutely. But actual deities? I'm not sure.”

The Inquisitor drew back to her full hight and stared up at the statue's face again. The Herald of Andraste, they called her. A name she had never shunned, but would never truly embrace. Here she faced her supposed savior and looked her in the eye as if they both just two people. Two people that destiny had called upon to shape the world, whether for the best or not. Both shaped by their origins, yet forgers of their own paths.

“I don’t know what’s real or not. The Creators may be real, or your Maker is. Maybe the dwarves or the Avvar have it right. Or who knows, maybe they’re all real and laughing at all us “silly little people” trying to make sense of it all.” She chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief. “There could be something out there, but for now I’ll focus on believing in the people around me.”

He had never met someone so accepting of the idea of being alone in all of the world’s chaos. Then again, she wasn’t really alone, was she? She had the Inquisition to bolster her, the people of Thedas for her to tend to, her Inner Circle to support her, The Iron Bull to comfort her and her advisors to guide her. She had him as well, for her questions and her teasing and her easy hand offered in friendship. For as long as he could raise his sword and command their troops and struggle through, she had him.

Laeta reached out and patted his shoulder, as he stood, his headache finally slipping away. “If praying to the Maker or Andraste makes you happy, then you should do it,” she told him, a spring in her step as they walked side by side, leaving the shrine behind and making their way through the gardens and into the throne room. “If any higher power wants to come down and lend us a hand, I’d be glad for the help, but I’m not going to wait around for them to catch up.”

And with a cheerful wave she was off, skipping off to the library to bother Solas for Fade tales, recruit Dorian for a bit of mischief or possibly even to feed the ravens circling the aviary while Leliana kept a watchful eye on her.

Divine or not, Cullen thought to himself as he made his way back to his office, their Inquisitor was truly something special.


	5. Amos Adaar: Living With It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? No, it can't be... It is! A different Inquisitor! Oh my!
> 
> Meet Amos Adaar. Large, slobby, muscled, mage and honestly kind of a shit. I love him, so I can admit that. My Qunari son is a sarcastic shit who loves to mess with people (with mostly good intentions). Where does he get that from I wonder?

“Amatus, I do believe you do this to torture me.”

A loud slurp answered Dorian’s suffering pleas, echoing off the walls and rebounding up and up to startle the ravens above.

“Do gobble it down a little louder, will you? I don’t think they heard you in the Anderfels.”

Their beloved Inquisitor Amos Adaar, hair bed-mussed and dressed like a common peasant, all while eating a bowl of stew whilst standing in the center of the library for all to see. He had spilt some of the food onto his shirt, which quite frankly looked as if it had been stitched out of a mainsail.

His lover’s glorious attractiveness aside, what with his piercing golden eyes, voice like molasses and muscular physique that seemed to go hand in hand with being born with grey skin and horns…

“I haven’t seen you all morning, gorgeous,” Amos mercifully waited until _after_ he’d swallowed, before he beginning to talk. “I don’t see why an empty belly should get in the way of me spending time with you."

 _Oh Maker_. Forget his father, it would have taken more than the Archon himself to make sure Dorian would never fall to this man’s magnetism.

“Why must you say such marvelous things? Soon you’ll have bards singing songs of your love of small animals and what would that do for the Inquisition’s fearsome reputation?”

“That we’re fur-friendly? Maybe attract some werewolves to the cause.”

“If you start rolling around with man-sized canines, we are going to have _words_ about _your_ sleeping arrangements.”

“Ouch. Understood, lover."

Dorian’s annoyingly never-ending emotional entanglement aside, that did not change the fact that Josephine would not likely want the term “unkempt slovenly savage” to be added to the their illustrious leader’s growing list of titles. At least not before she was given the chance to make it appear endearing and attractive to the masses.

Which it most certainly was _not_.

Attractive, that is.

Not in the slightest.

_Kaffas!_

“You ok there, beautiful? You look like you’re floating away.”

“My feet are firmly on the ground, I can assure you, amatus.”

The worst part was Dorian knew that Amos was doing it all on purpose. Standing there, large and imposing under the persona of a careless, domesticated man. While it was true that his Amatus never really put a great deal of thought into his appearance, Amos was also observant enough to know exactly whom it bothers (affects) the most. His lover is sort of a bastard like that.

Dorian is, was, a nobleman from Tevinter. He’s meant to be attracted to the finer things in life. Prestige, grace, confidence and fine-tuned control. He is not supposed to be so affected by the simple sight of a man comfortable in his surroundings. Someone who has dropped their guard, their masks and walks and talks and sleeps and eats and fucks and loves at their own pace. Someone who _has_ every one of those ‘high-born’ traits and yet shows them off so casually in his nonchalance and void-take-me attitude.

Amos smiled with that particular twinkle in his eyes; the one that practically screamed ‘I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing-to-your-cock-and-I’m-enjoying-every-moment-of-it’.

“Really? That’s a shame, lover. Sending you soaring is a matter of pride for me.”

The bastard.

Unlike Dorian, who wielded his looks as yet another form of armor, Amos used his like a weapon to get what he wanted. He could charm or aggravate whatever he wanted out of anyone and apparently today’s play has come in the form of a stained shirt, a bowl of the cook’s stew and a pair of innocent (ha!) eyes.

“Anyway, I brought you some too.” Amos came forward, another steaming bowl suddenly coming into view from Maker knows where. “Added some of that shredded ginger root you like so much.”

He winked and pulled the ancient tome from his lover’s grip, setting it down gently (smart man) on top of the pile beside the chair, before replacing the book with a bowl of hot stew and a fork. He used his now free hand to tilt Dorian’s chin up to steal a kiss and then the Altus couldn’t care less about how his lover looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, or that they were very much in public, _or_ the fact that his lover tasted like druffalo meat and chicken broth.

There was a handsome, fascinating, aggravating, charismatic, giant ass of a man that added spices to his food, called him all manner of ridiculous endearments in public, never noticed the stains on his dull clothing, sent him soaring every night, enjoyed pushing buttons and kissed him when he wanted to, or when Dorian wanted to, or for no reason whatsoever.

Dorian supposed he could live with that.


	6. Kendra Trevelyan: Words to Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone new again! Yay! I figured I'd ditch the slow build and just go down the line now.
> 
> Say hi to Kendra Trevelyan. Unstoppable with a sword and shield, but she's got some issues. Though I like to think they're the kind of issues that a lot of people have, so... relatable, I hope?

Kendra stared down at the letter in her hands, eyes once again glancing over every curve and tilt to her mother’s handwriting, before finally deciding to stop torturing herself and tucked it back into the deep confines of her desk with all the others. She turned her attention to the blank sheet of parchment in front of her and the quill pen still perched in its ink fountain, just waiting to be put to good use. Taking it in her hand, she dipped it twice and let her hand hover over the paper and tried to let her thoughts translate into script.

_Dear Lady Trevelyan,_

_The Inquisition is truly honored by your level of interest and concerns for the wellbeing of its Inquisitor and her many responsibilities. Your support is welcomed, however matters concerning Corypheus take priority during these troubled times and the Inquisitor cannot be spared even at the behest of such urgent matters. When peace has been restored, then-_

Kendra stopped and scratched out her words, drawing another page from the stack.

_Dearest Mother,_

_I apologize for not finding the time to write to you earlier. Corypheus is a constant threat and dismantling his forces has taken up most of my time and efforts. Just know that I am well, all things considering, and I have not forgotten my duties even as danger looms. Peace will take time and there is still much the Inquisition must do that I must be here for, but when this crisis has been averted, I will return-_

She growled and crumpled the letter into a ball, tossing it onto the ground to join the twenty or so already lining her floor. She sat for a minute, head held in her hands, before reaching for one more page, this time writing quickly and lacking her usual elegance.

_Mama,_

_Please stop sending letters. I am not coming home. I am happy and have more of a purpose here than I ever did as a Trevelyan. If you love me, if you ever cared about my happiness, please just let me go. I am sorry that I cannot be the daughter you want me to be. I am sorry-_

A low groan grew in her belly and made its way up her throat and out into the echoing silence of her quarters. Kendra balled the paper up and threw it as hard as she could, so it hit the wall before rolling to stop close to the bed.

Suddenly her door burst open and smacked against the wall, the wood shaking on its hinges as a flash of knife-cut blond hair and plaidweeve breeches scurried up the stone steps and onto the landing.

“Shiny!” Sera crowed as she came into view, but she came to a sudden and impressive halt as she took in the state of the room and the location (and likely posturing) of her lover.

“Right. What’s on?”

“What do you mean?” Kendra tried, forcing her voice to regain some of its usual calm. Sera wasn’t having any of it though, and she crossed her arms and glared.

“You. Sittin’ in your serious-word-writing-spot, mess everywhere, looking like someone died.” Sera blinked rapidly a few times, her arms falling to her sides again. “Someone die?”

A hollow laugh escaped Kendra’s mouth. “Doesn’t somebody always?” she asked, heart heavy and shoulders slumped, but one look at Sera’s nervous expression had her hurrying to reassure the elf. “No, no one’s dead, _acushla_. At least nobody that we know.”

“Right. Good that. So what’s wrong?” Sera seemed a little more settled, though she still had a frown on her face. It made her freckles more pronounced and once again, Kendra couldn’t help but see how lovely she was when she was angry. While the Inquisitor struggled to find an answer that could write off the whole awkward moment they were currently having, Sera took the chance away from her and bent down to retrieve one or two of the discarded letters. One of which, to Kendra’s embarrassment, was the one she had just lobbed across the room.

“Well, this is shite,” she stated after a moment of skimming the letters.

Kendra sighed, somewhere between wariness and affection. “I’m aware.”

“No, really, this is _shite_.” Sera waved the latest letter over her head like she was signaling troops. “What’re you writing to your mum for?”

“Because I should?” Kendra ventured softly, rising from behind her desk and making her way over to take the pages from Sera. The elf seemed more likely to rip the pages, rather than hand them over, but she relented with a huff. “She’s written me dozens of letters, I thought I should at least reply to one of them.”

“Do you want to?”

Her lover always did have such a wonderful way of getting straight to the point. It was part of her charm and the human woman adored her for it, even if right now, she’d rather be anywhere but here, having this conversation.

“Not particularly, no,” Kendra admitted.

Sera nodded. “Right. Well. Stuff it, then.” She snatched the papers from Kendra’s grip and promptly tore them to bits. At the Inquisitor’s gaping look, she shrugged. “What? You don’t want to. No one’s makin’ you. So leave it, yeah? Come back later and we can have fun naked time on Old Lady Ladybits’s pretty papers.”

She tugged at Kendra’s hand, leading her towards the stairs that led from her quarters to the Main Hall. The human woman laughed, the tight ball of twine in her stomach loosening with every step.

“C’mon Shiny! Bull’s waiting with more of that Qun-drink rubbish. Bet three crowns, I could take more than him, yeah? Pfft! ‘Take more than him.’ That’s good, ‘cus of holes and bits and stuff, in’nit?”

Sera pulled harder. “C’mon! Winner gets kisses from the Quizzy ‘Cept you like girl-bits, not Bull-bits so… maybe pie instead? Pie’s good.”

Eventually she would have to respond to her mother’s letters. Eventually Kendra would have to confront her, whether in person or not. For now however, there was chattering elf dragging her out of her room, drinks to be had with friends in the tavern and a pie to be left in someone’s chair.

“As long as it’s cherry,” Kendra grinned, waiting until it clicked in her lover’s head and she let out a loud series of snorts.

“Brilliant! Cherry, ‘cus of… cherry!”

For now, with Sera’s hand warm in hers, the day was looking to be a fairly wonderful one.


	7. Osira Cadash: Uncovering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My little archer, Osira Cadash is up next and I hope you all know this was not easy for me! I usually like to build up an image of a character, BEFORE I tackle at what's truly underneath.
> 
> However, the idea was a really good one and I knew that if I didn't get it out, it would fade away from my mind. Where has my youth gone...?
> 
> So, yeah some serious past situations here. I chose not to archive warnings, but that doesn't mean there aren't any, is all I'm saying.

The first time Josephine ever saw the Inquisitor baring any amount of skin, had been after Haven. That frozen night in the Frostbacks, after Osira’s miraculous return from the dead and the dwarven woman was set upon by Solas, Mother Giselle, and what few healers they had after the Commander returned carrying her in his arms. They had ripped hurriedly through her leathers in order to get at her wounds, and all Josephine could truly recall from that moment was how her throat tightened from her brief glimpse at the damage.

The flush practically non-existent in Osira’s cheeks, the breath nearly snatched from her lungs. There was so much bruising and gashes adorning her far-too pale skin, it was a miracle the woman still lived. She had noticed the tattoos, of course she had, they was impossible not to notice, but at the time they didn’t register.

It was until later. Until Skyhold and months and _months_ of gentle words and thoughtful gifts and whispers of love had finally been exchanged, that the ambassador was awarded another look.

The two women had eased into their physical relationship slowly. Josephine wasn’t ignorant by any means, but she was fairly innocent, or at least inexperienced in such matters, and Osira was more familiar with the concept of pleasure rather than love. What they had was special and it was not something either of them wanted to ruin by going too quickly. However, when the two lovers decided to consummate their relationship, it went a bit differently then expected.

Josephine was seated on the bed, her own garments shyly discarded, as she waited for the other woman to join her. Osira hesitated before removing her clothes, though her own nervousness seemed to be another sort than the ambassador’s. After she was finally naked, Josephine couldn’t help but stare. From her neckline to her feet, the dwarf was covered in intricate tattoos. Lines of red and swirls of black twisted and cascaded along her curves. They were numerous, but beautiful. Having the Inquisitor marked so extensively would raise several questions of course, but the tattoos were works of art, as was the rest of the woman and Josephine couldn’t for the life of her see why they were always hidden away under her clothing.

Until she came close enough to touch.

Osira took the hand Josephine had already unconsciously extended and pressed their joined palms against her hips and stomach. There Josephine felt the slightly risen skin hidden under the ink. Upon further gentle inspection, she discovered that the marks also covered the length of her body. Unlike the tattoos, the marks were jagged and had been carved into the skin, rather than painted into.

Rough, twisted scarring that had never completely healed and left the skin a canvas to be painted over and forgotten.

No. Never forgotten.

But, perhaps at least put out of mind.

Josephine looked up into her beloved’s face and was met with a set of desperate eyes. Osira’s face was carefully blank, her hand steady, but her eyes were wild.

 _Do not pity me_ , they seemed to beg.

_Do not judge me._

She had known, of course, that Osira had been a member of the Carta. She had know that her lover had been in some truly dangerous situations. The Inquisitor rarely spoke of her life before the Inquisition and when she did, it was only to offer up information that might be useful to their cause or to make an offhand remark that if one did not know the woman, one may overlook the significance of its admittance.

What Josephine did know, is that Osira had _hated_ that life. Hated how her plans of negotiation and profit increase were ignored in favored of brute strength and cruel dishonesty. Hated how her father treated her as though she were an ornament to be seen and never heard. Hated the lack of any lasting, loyal friendships, hated the constant desperation that would drive someone to commit the most heinous crimes, hated what another’s mistakes cost her in the long run.

Josephine felt tears begin to fill her eyes as her hands ran up Osira’s thighs, where the scaring was the heaviest and the ink was the most extensive.

“How old were you?” she asked.

“Old enough,” Osira answered.

Her eyes were dry and her hand over Josephine’s was warm, but her next words cracked, as the fear finally started to leak through.

“If…” she started, looking truly afraid for the first time in all the time Josephine had known her. “If this is too much, if you can’t… If you don’t want me to be here, I can-“

She didn’t get to finish.

Josephine rose onto her knees from where she had been seated on the bed and kissed her beloved into silence. When she pulled away, Osira was staring at her as though she were gazing at the sun.

“Your words leave my heart filled and my soul sore.”

She pressed her lips against her love’s palm, their hands still entwined.

“Your courage gives me strength and my work purpose.”

The scars along the Inquisitor’s torso received the same treatment; gently brushed over with soft fingertips and then kissed with the same level of devotion.

“Your love makes me whole and gives every sunset its colors.”

The walls were crumbling now and Josephine caught the spilling tears with her mouth, as they spilled down Osira’s cheeks.

“And your presence is one I would never be bereft of.”

With those words, Inquisitor finally collapsed into her beloved’s waiting arms as the two lowered themselves to the soft sheets below. They lay there, bare and together, for the rest of the night. They never separated, but did little more then hold each other in a long embrace.

No, their first night together did not go as planned. However, neither one of them could ever find it in themselves to regret it.


	8. Beatrice "Bice" Trevelyan: Never Be That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it's my darling Bice's turn. Bice or Beatrice Trevelyan is my lovely lady mage and...
> 
> Yeah I'm not even gonna try to get around this one.
> 
> She's Mom.
> 
> That's it. She's a complete mama and I made her in that image for a reason (possibly to reflect some personality traits I have, only she does them better).

The hour was late and the Commander was elbow deep in reports when Bice walked through the door, a tired sigh slipping from her lips as she barred it behind her. Cullen took in the slump of her shoulders and wordlessly made his way over to her, wrapping his arms around her and gently tugging her back into his chest.  He was grateful then, that he had already changed out of his armor and into a simple cotton shirt that night. Bice’s influence, of course.

“Long day?” he asked quietly.

She chuckled and leaned her head back against his shoulder. “I feel as though we’ve been here before, only in reverse.”

“Several times, in fact.”

“Maker, we’re becoming predictable."

Cullen let out a soft laugh of his own and tightened his hold on his lover. The warmth of her body was comfortable against him and her honey-like scent wafted over him, mixed with scent of clean sweat and dust from the road from earlier that day. However, while her posture had relaxed considerably in his hold, there was still quite a bit of tension kneaded into Bice’s muscles. He didn’t need to see her face to know her expression would be troubled.

“Did something happen?” he asked, possibly stupidly on his part. Something was _always_ happening. A great magical hole in the sky and a darkspawn magister trying to achieve Godhood rarely made for a quiet afternoon.

However, if the Inquisitor felt any annoyance toward the question, she did not show it. Instead, she turned to face him, while still managing to keep his hands on her at all times.

“Dorian was in the tavern,” a pained look crossed her face. “Drinking himself into a stupor.”

Cullen felt a wave of sadness for his friend. For all his bluster and on-air putting, it had been obvious to the Commander that Dorian was still rattled from the side-trip to Redcliffe. Dorian had explained, albeit rather flippantly that after going to meet a “family retainer”, he’d instead been taken by surprise when his father had shown up instead.

The same father that had attempted to use blood magic on his son because Dorian did not meet the standards of a Pavus.

He didn’t know all of the details, mainly because Dorian wasn’t talking and Bice respected her fellow mage’s privacy too much to talk about his business behind his back, but from what Cullen understood, the two men had talked after much arguing, Dorian agreeing to hear his father out, rather than walk away and that was that. Magister Pavus was on his way back to the Imperium and Dorian had retuned to Skyhold with hopefully some form of closure, if not reconciliation.

Honestly, Cullen couldn’t blame him if the latter never came.

“I sat with him, switched the whiskey for water every few pints, then helped get him to bed after he passed out.” Bice continued. “Bull helped me get him up the tavern’s stairs. He’s better off in Bull’s room then his own right now.”

Cullen raised one hand from her waist to brush the woman’s curly dark hair our of her eyes. “Give him time. He probably just needs to get his thoughts together.”

“I know. I am so _so_ proud of him for staying, when it was obvious that it was the last thing he wanted to do. Maker, I felt like a monster stopping him from leaving.”

He stared down at her a moment. “You’re angry.”

She lifted her gaze to his. Her face calm, her tone steady, but her eyes blazing. “I’m furious. The second I heard what that… _man_ tried to do, I wanted to freeze him solid and let Bull smash him into little pieces.” Bice let out a hollow laugh. “Vivienne would be so proud.”

Cullen pressed a kiss to her brow and Bice leaned into it, craving the contact. Silently, the two made their way up to the loft above Cullen’s office, got undressed and slid underneath the sheets. Cullen held her close as Bice pillowed her head on his chest, breathing in time with the steady heartbeat under her ear. Both of them thinking, ‘how did I get so lucky?’

“Things became difficult when I discovered my magic, when I left for the Circle, but even then…” Bice finally broke the silence, whispering as the single candle by the bedside made shadows dance along the walls. “Things were strained between Melina and I, but they never hated me, never blamed me. Never asked me to be anything other than myself.”

Cullen thought of Honnleath. Of Branson pressing a coin into his palm and Rosalie hugging him tightly, fighting back tears. Of Father and Mother sending him off to training with a new sword and their blessings. Of Mia’s frequent letters that he was at last finding the courage to reply to again. He thought of them and stroked his thumb against his lover’s pulse, reveling in the feeling of life and love.

“I just can’t fathom it,” Bice lost herself in her musings, burrowing her head deeper into Cullen’s warmth. “How could any family treat their children so terribly? Dorian, Varric, Sera, Cassandra, even Cole’s memories of his namesake…”

Cullen ducked his head and caught her lips with his own. It was a tender kiss, lacking intent, but in no way without desire. This woman who inspired armies and calmed the tides of war and collected friends and allies like wayward children; tending to their wounds and making a place for them within the ever-expanding confines of her heart. Every day he saw her patience taken advantage of again and again with glory-seeking bureaucrats that entered their halls and every day he saw her concern and worry grow and grow with every crisis that rose, no matter if it were for an impending coup or the state of Varric’s weary heart.

“I never want to become that. Never.”

She was so desperate to keep herself steady, she never even noticed when the ground was crumbling underneath her, always staggering to regain her footing.

“You never will.”

He thought of the desk one floor below them, and a small box and its contents hidden away for just the right moment, within one of its many drawers.

 _We_ never will.


	9. Tu'la "Tully" Adaar: Worthy Among Rubble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok for the record, the whole "Iron-Ass Tully" from the Adaar background? Not this one and complete unintentional on my part seeing as I thought the name up months before the game came out.
> 
> THERE HAS BEEN NO COPYRIGHTING ON MY PART I PROMISE!!!
> 
> Tu'la Adaar, or Tully is my double dagger rogue and also very complicated... mostly because of her simplicity. Confused? Let's watch! 
> 
> Also, again deep topics, but hopefully less so than Osira's chapter.

After judgment had been cast, a kiss had been shared and the shackles removed, Tully and the newly freed Thom Rainier made their way out from under the nosy eyes in the Hall and up to the Inquisitor’s quarters. They did not speak. They did not touch. Despite their touching and merciful moment together during judgment, there was still an undeniable distance between the two lovers.

Tully gestured at the coach. Not the bed. Not for this.

“Sit,” she told him and he obliged immediately. After a moment she sat down beside him.

“How shall I refer to you in public?” she asked. “Rainier or Blackwall?” The false warden was struggling to meet her gaze, but Tully had no such difficulty, at least not to the naked eye. Inside her stomach was churning and her heart ached, but hesitance had no place here. There were things that needed to be said, decisions that needed to be made. Avoiding them would not simply make the problems go away. Blackwall had taught her that.

Rainier too.

“I’ve gotten used to Blackwall. Perhaps we could treat it as less of a name and more of a title.” A small smile crossed his face, just briefly. “Almost like ‘Inquisitor’ Reminds me of what I ought to be.”

Tully nodded her head, one problem solved. Now…

“You told me again and again that you weren’t worthy of me. This is why.”

It wasn’t a question, but it still seemed to seek an answer regardless.

Blackwall ducked his head and clenched his fists, until his nails drew blood. “It’s true. I’m not worthy of you, I never have been. Your very presence inspires greatness. You show courage, wisdom and kindness in your actions and you’ve never once wavered or asked anyone else to bear the weight. You are what the Wardens mean when they speak of nobility in sacrifice.”

 _Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn._ Good words. Solid words. Words to live and die by.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, let alone your love, but…” and here he turned to her, face open and fearful, losing years with every layer that he shed. “If you would permit me to stay with you, I swear I will work to become someone you could see as befitting you, my lady.”

Tully was very still. She didn’t acknowledge her lover’s declarations, either to accept or deny them. Finally, reaching out to cover his hand with her own, she started to speak.

“I made my first kill when I was twelve years old.” Blackwall looked confused, but held his tongue, letting her speak.

 _Start with honesty_ , she had told him from her throne. There was no point if it didn’t go both ways.

“The Valo-kas were hired to kill a nobleman who’d been running an illegal smuggling ring from his estate. They had to go in under dark and leave before anyone saw them.” An easy job, straightforward, Turaana had said. _As easy as a poxy whore._ “They got the job done, but they were spotted by one of the nobleman’s servants. Younger than me at the time.”

Tully sighed. She hadn’t thought about this in a long time. Cole was probably the only one who had known.

_‘Loud voices behind the door. Put him back? No, pay him off. Orit’s worried. He’s too soft, he’ll break at the first blighter who says ‘boo’. Send him somewhere safe, keep him here. Too risky. Just kill him? He’s a kid! It’d solve things. There are other options.’_

“No one knew what to do, so they took him back to our hideout. The boy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t his fault, but he’d never be able to lie if someone else got to him.” And yet she hadn’t hesitated. She’d dealt with it.

“I took a knife from our reserves, went into the basement and slit his throat. I did it quick, but I was still covered in the boy’s blood. I didn’t know enough not to make a mess.” She had learned. “I told the adults what I had done. I told them that the problem was taken care of…” Blackwall watched his lover with wide eyes as she trailed off, remembering.

Everyone staring at the blood on her shirt and hands, before Baastok and Orit ran to the back to check. Turaana taking her knife back and asking the small Vashoth questions in a careful voice. Shokrakar staring with a blank look on her face, even after the men had returned and confirmed the kill. Orit taking her away, for the first time without a jovial word, and helping her change before putting her to bed.

 _We’ll talk about it in the morning_ , he’d said. They had. Then he’d given her, her own dagger and Turaana taught her how to stay clean for next time.

The hand beneath hers shook pulling her from the past. Blackwall’s face had taken on a pained expression. With her other hand, Tully cupped his cheek, his beard scratchy under her large, calloused palm. The difference in their comparative sizes, usually a cause for amusement, had never seemed more apparent.

“I am no more worthy than you, Thom. Before the Inquisition, I fought for no cause, no calling, not even for survival. I killed because I was good at it. Because it was easier.”

Now instead of reaching for her knife, she reached for her words first. Now instead of walking past fights, she stepped into them. Now instead of sleeping, eating, killing and fucking, she dreamed, feasted, trained and loved.

The two damaged lovers touched their foreheads to each other’s and breathed in the their combined scents; earth and wood smoke. The pedestal had crumbled, but now the could look each other in the eyes amongst the rubble. An even trade.

“The Inquisition gave me a reason to fight,” Tully breathed. “You gave me a reason to care.”


	10. Laeta Lavellan: Just Because

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, she's back, shut up!  
> I love my Laeta and I love her and Bull doing stuff and being awesome so DEAL WITH IT!!!
> 
> ...if you'd be so kind, gentle readers who could destroy my reputation (lol what rep?) in the fan fiction/DA community.
> 
> Read on!

Bull had told Laeta when they started that what was between them could stay behind closed doors. He didn’t want to be someone’s dirty secret, but he got the need for privacy and the Boss deserved that much. Someone with her job already had too little, what with all of Thedas waiting to see what she did next.

So he’d been ready for everything to stay pretty much the same when they were outside the bedroom. She was the Boss, she was in charge and he would still follow her anywhere even if she wasn’t showing up in his bed (or vice-versa) every night.

He really must be losing his touch.

“Bull! _Bull!_ ” Bull barely had time to brace himself before he had an armful of a gangling, squirming and admittedly _nice_ elf. He ignored Krem and Rocky’s catcalls and Dalish’s giggling and focused on the tiny woman now meeting him eyes to eye.

“Yeah, Boss?”

Laeta grinned, dimples raised and eyes lit up with honest joy, grabbed onto his face and kissed him full on the mouth.

The whole tavern pretty much lit up with cheers and hoots, the loudest coming from the Charger’s table, the bastards. Krem’s voice just barely heard over the din.

“Shit, Chief, you really know how to put on a show!”

Bull ignored his lieutenant and focused on the feel of his Boss’ tongue in his mouth. She devoured him with questing lips and a thorough tongue and he returned the favor ten-fold, dipping the lithe woman in his arms until she was hanging on for dear life, her hands caught round his neck as he swallowed her moans. He was gonna get hard at this rate and only pulled back when he heard Cabot yelling over the noise.

“Get a room you two! You have sex on my bar, I’m calling your tab!”

They finally came up for air, both with matching shit-eating grins spewed across their faces. Laeta threw back her head and laughed from way deep in her belly. He always did like her laugh. It was thorough and honest, just like her.

“Nice,” he smirked, his hands still on her hips and her legs still wrapped around his waist. She made no move to leave his lap. “What was that for?”

She shrugged. “Just because,” she giggled and reached over to take a gulp of his drink.

He figured out quickly that “just because” inspired dancing together whenever Maryden stuck up the Boss’ favorite song, watching her respond to every playful barb and taunt the Chargers threw at her with cheer and innuendo as they all drank into the night, and her hand rubbing his knee at camp whether in invitation or because she'd noticed the damn thing was hurting worse than usual.

One day, she even jaunted over after the Charger’s morning training and handed him a jar of horn balm in front of everyone.

Just because.

“I know you’re horns are bothering you,” she told him as he stood there almost dumbstruck by what had been shoved into his hands. “I can help you apply it.”

Laeta gave him a quick squeeze and scampered off as he was left to inspect the contents. One whiff, one finger run through the cream told him this was the good stuff, not the cheap-ass kind they rationed out back on Seheron. Krem had teased him for a week.

“She’s got you pegged, Chief.”

In the field, the Boss was more professional. She didn't show obvious favoritism during a fight and didn't get too touchy-feely outside of camp.

Except after a dragon, but those were… special exceptions.

Just because.

“Did you feel how its roar _shook_ the ground? The _heat_ of its breath! _Taarsidath-an halsaam._ "

Laeta had wrapped herself around him, grinding against him while still covered in blood and smelling of smoke and battle. A wild look was in her eyes and she was grinning like a maniac. “Why not right now?”

“Can do, Boss.”

Laeta didn’t get embarrassed when any of their friends brought up their time together. Even when Cole did his weird spirit-mind… thing, there was only helpless laughter and pleased blushes at whatever weird crap came out his mouth from picking around in their heads.

No awkwardness, just happy content.

No hiding, just pride.

No excuses.

“Kadan?” she asked.

Just because.

“Kadan,” he answered.


	11. Mai Lavellan: Saying the Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, Mai Lavellan, another mage and also very complicated. But she's precious. Lot's of growth that I'm sorts jumping into early again, but once again... story idea! Gotta grab 'em.
> 
> Spoilers for whoever hasn't finished the game, though come on... At this point, even if you haven't reached the end, there's NO. WAY. You've managed to stay off Tumblr or Youtube for the last year. 
> 
> I know my own kind. We're very weak. But still, just so no one can said I didn't say it...  
> SPOILERS!

From the moment the elven mage had disappeared from the Temple of Sacred Ashes after Corypheus met his final end, Mai had begun searching frantically for him. Leliana’s scouts were extremely skilled at what they did, but Mai knew that if Solas didn’t want to be found, he would not be. The man had not survived all these years as an apostate through luck alone.

So instead of scouring half of Thedas, from the Western Approach to the Hinterlands, she searched the Fade instead.

She was quite possibly even more unlikely to find him through dreams, given his incredible control over the unconscious realm, but her time at his side had proven fruitful not only for the maturity of her emotions, but for her abilities as well. While Mai was no _true_ dreamer, she was a talented mage who learned very quickly. Not to mention the boost to her magical powers the anchor provided her with, plus the voices of the Well whose whispering only increased in fervency and volume the more she searched.

Mai searched. She searched and searched and searched. Desperate to find even a trace of the man who had brought so much knowledge and confusion and pain and love and life into her world and then left so abruptly, leaving everything and everyone behind.

She spoke with spirits, friendly and those just neutral enough that were unlikely to use her as a doorway into the waking worlds. She even happened upon the odd sleeping individual and asked whether there had been any irregularities that they’d noticed in their dreams (though, being the Fade, irregularities were rather expected).

“Listen, Bookworm…” Varric said one day after three months had gone by. Even after returning to Kirkwall, the dwarf still returned to Skyhold often enough. ‘Unfinished business’ he called it. ‘Nosiness’ Cassandra had called it, but seeing as _she_ was still staying put even while rebuilding the Seekers _and_ looming two steps behind them, she didn’t really have room to judge. “I know how much you and Chuckles meant to each other. A blind guy could’ve seen it. But…”

Cassandra chimed in, coming forward where she had NOT been eavesdropping. “There has been no word from Solas and even Leliana has been unable to find him.”

Varric rested a hand on Mai’s arm and gave it a squeeze. It was way too thin. “You’ve been looking for him when you’re sleeping too, right? I’d say it’s pretty clear he doesn’t want to be found. And if he doesn’t want to be found, then even if you did manage to catch him, dragging him back won’t help anyone. Especially you.”

“I will not be dragging him back to Skyhold.” Mai stared into the fireplace beside Varric’s chair. The flames crackled and danced, the occasional spark jumping free before withering away into nothing. “I will not turn this place into a prison, just because I miss him and I do not want him to leave.”

“Then why…?” Cassandra trailed off.

Mai looked up and when the light hit her face it looked like tears were trailing down her cheeks even though her eyes were completely dry.

“There are things I need to know,” she insisted, hands folded over her stomach and still as a statue. “He promised me he would explain. Why he could not stay with me, why he could not stay with _us_. I still have things to say and so does he, so it is not finished yet.”

Varric and Cassandra shared a worried look.

“I love him.” Mai said plainly, no grand proclamation, no colorful descriptions. Just as if it were another fact of the world. “If he wants to walk away, then I cannot force him to stay.”

The voices crooned in her head, soothing and frightening, but she pushed past them and focused on the crackling of the flames, the plains of her own stomach under her palms, the drum of Cassandra’s breathing and Varric’s warm hand on her arm.

“But if I have learned anything from my time here, from all of you and from Solas, it is that it does not matter having the last word. What lasts is saying the words that matter.”


	12. Darsc Cadash: Sacrifices Big and Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darsc Cadash is technically my final original Inquisitor. Original meaning, I planned them out months/a year in advance of DA:I and don't you even try telling me you all didn't do the same damn thing!
> 
> Awesome with a battle axe, Darsc is... a challenging child to raise, and yet often the easiest. Takes right proper care of himself, don't you sweetheart.
> 
> ...Ok, he's glaring. Moving along.

“I still don’t see why we all must attend the ball,” Cassandra huffed, pulling at the collar of her dress uniform. Each one of the Inquisitor’s closest were in attendance along with the advisors, waiting in the Main Hall for the Inquisitor to emerge from his quarters and lead them into the carriages that would take them all to Halamshiral.

Leliana sighed and reached over to straighten the Seeker’s jacket. While not a dress, it was clear that getting Cassandra and any kind of formalwear to cooperate would always be a challenge. “One of the Inquisition’s greatest strengths is the diversity of its members, particularly those who are considered closest to the Inquisitor; his Inner Circle.”

She reached up, her fingers eager to fiddle with Cassandra’s hair, but one serious glare from her counterpart had her pulling back.

“If any of the key members of the Inquisition were to not attend, we would be giving Celene, Gaspard, everyone there, the impression and the ammunition that the Inquisition does not even take itself seriously.” The Spymaster glanced about to take in the Iron Bull’s practiced stance, Varric’s easy charm, Dorian’s natural poise, Vivienne’s obvious control, Sera’s sheer uncommonness, and the rest.

“When somebody has something that sets them apart, especially if it’s something unusual or not commonly accepted, what better way to expunge that weakness than by turning it into their greatest strength?”

“It still seems unnecessary, especially given that there are _certain_ individuals,” and here her glare became much more pointed, “who have repeatedly given examples of why they would be of little use during such Orlesian foolishness.”

A flash of freckles and roughly cut hair, along with the scent of clover and cookies, and Sera was suddenly leaning against the warrior woman. “Ah, suck it up Cassandra,” she grumbled. “If I gotta go, you gotta go. An’ I really don’t wanna go. Stupid piss-head, fancy-pants nobles, kickin’ cooks when they get tired of eatin’ their own shit.”

“And besides,” Leliana added with a little smirk. “How would the Inquisitor feel, knowing his beloved did not want to accompany him to such an important event?”

Cassandra blushed before her face shifted into a furious scowl that’s intimidating powers were slightly diminished by the fact that her face was still bright red. “I-I fail to see how my presence would make a difference, regardless of our relationship. We are there to stop the Venatori, not dance the night away under the moon.”

Leliana shrugged. She’d had many years to learn how to pick her battles.

“She’s not wrong.” Darsc Cadash stated, appearing next to Cassandra, seemingly out of nowhere. It was amazing that for a man who marched into battle in full heavy armor and a battleaxe strapped to his back, the man made almost no noise on a regular basis. “Your skills will be useful when the fighting starts.”

It probably said something about their lives, that ‘if’ was no longer even considered simply a possibility.

“Also with you there, I can vent so I won’t start stabbing any of those idiots myself.”

Sera laughed loudly, drawing everyone else's attention and Cassandra fought back a smile, trying to remain responsible. “Inquisitor, we are going to the Winter Palace to _stop_ trouble, not start it.

Darsc crossed his arms and looked up at his lover. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to wipe the smug smirk off the ass who invited us. He’s trying to compare kill notches with me. I won’t punch him, but I want to.”

“Inquisitor, Duke Gaspard-”

“Is a blowhard,” Darsc finished for his spymaster. “And the empress and her former spymaster are fools. The civil war happened because a few brats decided to throw a tantrum after somebody told them ‘no’. None of them are qualified to run a cake shop, let alone a kingdom.”

The whole room had practically gone silent as everyone stared after Darsc for his blunt words, some horribly offended, others mildly impressed. Leliana found herself surprisingly leaning towards the latter.

“Knew there was a reason I liked ya,” Sera cackled, finally extricating herself from Cassandra’s person and wandering off to bother Vivienne. Leliana gave the dwarven man a small bow and left to reunite with her fellow advisors.

Left to some semblance of privacy, Darsc turned back to look up at Cassandra with a serious face, but significantly warmer eyes. Unlike herself, in her opinion, the red of the dress uniform was very complimentary on the dwarf, from his dusky skin and hair, to his blue eyes and his maze of facial tattoos and scars.

“I know how much you hate this shit. I’m glad you’re coming.”

For someone not big on words, Cassandra thought, the Inquisitor certainly made the few he did say impactful.

Face red once again, Cassandra coughed and turned her head, "I suppose… if you truly wish for me to be at your side, there are worse things than attending a gathering of Olesian nonsense. Very few, however.”

Darsc just gave a small smile and brought the woman’s sword hand to his mouth, kissing her palm and then turned it to do the same to her knuckles.

“I appreciate the sacrifice.”


	13. Hiren/Laeta Lavellan: Family Resemblance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this one's weird and sort of a hybrid. Two Inquisitors, one of which is NOT Inquisitor and I happened to birth as an accident and idle thought...
> 
> A HAPPY accident and idle thought I assure you!  
> My trapper/dagger-happy boy Hiren Lavellan is Laeta's cousin and he does have his own Inquisitor world where he attended the Conclave, but also exists in Laeta's world where he didn't as well. I'll probably jump between the two universes. It's not like I'm not already with the rest of these kids.

When a small convoy of Dalish elves entered the gates of Skyhold, most didn’t pay them much attention. It was less of a product of racial stigma as it was recognition that the Inquisitor shared their heritage, as well as the fact that Laeta Lavellan, being who she was, gathered friends and allies from multiple origins and organizations alike. Compared to an influx of Orlesian nobles, mages, templars, Grey Wardens, a Tevinter Altus, the soon-to-be named Divine Victoria, plus a Qunari that was known to be sharing their beloved Inquisitor’s bed, a few elves really weren’t that noteworthy.

A small convoy of Dalish elves that arrived on the backs of numerous enormous harts however was a different story entirely.

Cullen, Cassandra and Josephine stood ready to greet them as they galloped in and dismounted, the commander and seeker posed in a respectful salute and the diplomat in a gracious curtsey. An older female elf, her hair graying, but her movements and eyes still sharp, came forward to meet them, hand clutched firmly around her staff and markings of Sylaise clear across her face. Josephine rose to greet her.

 _Andaran atish’an,_ Keeper Deshanna. You are welcome in Skyhold.”

The Keeper nodded. “ _Ma serannas_ , Lady Montilyet. Your hospitality does you great credit.”

“You honor me. I only-”

_“Papae!”_

The two women, along with most of the convoy and curious onlookers raised their gazes upwards to the Courtyard stairs while Cullen and Blackwall, who’d wandered over to see the commotion, merely shook their heads and grinned. Cassandra gave a disgusted grunt.

The Inquisitor stood at the top, flanked by a number of her inner circle including Bull, Dorian, Varric and Cole, as well as a number of the Chargers. Likely, they’d been in the tavern when they’d heard about the new arrivals.

The Inquisitor flew down the fleet of stone steps and leapt from the second landing, barely restraining herself until the eldest male of group was helped down off of his hart by another hunter, before she flung herself into his arms, clutching onto him and speaking rapidly, the other hunter looking on amusedly. The others, who’d followed her down at a much… steadier pace, arrived just in time to see the older elf pull back from the embrace and cup Laeta’s face in his palms.

“ _Da’nehn…_ ” he whispered gently, tears in his eyes. He had Laeta’s coloring, except for a lack of freckles and his Vallaslin, which was deep red and made to honor June. “Oh, my sweet girl, I have missed you so.”

Laeta flusheed, her smile only growing wider. “I missed you too, _Papae_.”

Her loyal companions watched the interaction, not even trying to feign disinterest, and with a shit-eating grin, Krem jabbed the Iron Bull in his side. “Ready to meet the in-laws, Chief?”

Dorian tried very hard to contain an unattractive snort and failed miserably, though he did manage to seemingly cover it up with a sudden cough.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Varric added. Laeta had finally separated from her father and was now hugging a younger elf with just as much enthusiasm. “Worst case scenario, they find some horrible, terrible, creative way to kill Tiny because he’s ‘corrupted’ their little bird.”

“Oh, the Dalish are much more risqué than you may think, Varric. That is, if twelve Tevinter ‘experts’ of supposed Dalish literature about the illicit nature of their _arlathvhens_ are to be believed.”

Krem snorted. “Sorry Pavus, that one’s already been shot. Asked Dalish about it not too long after she signed on. Laughed so hard, she almost passed out.”

“ _Fasta vaas_. Well, there goes another youthful fantasy.”

Meanwhile, Josephine had somehow managed to regain control over some of the situation and informed the remaining Dalish where they would be staying for the visit as Cullen and Blackwall moved to help Dennet with their mounts. Laeta broke away from her father and shared a few quiet words with Keeper, as well as a hug, before the older woman was directed away with Josephine and Cassandra, along with a majority of the convoy, leaving only a few behind.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh while you can, ‘Vint.” Bull smirked at the chortling mage. “I’m not only one in for a surprise today.”

Cole peered out from beneath his hat. “Curious. A face for a name, a tale, a feeling. This is him, human, handsome. Will she be right? She usually is.”

Dorian frowned. “Whatever are you two talking about-?”

“And these are some of my friends,” Laeta interrupted, walking towards them with the man they now were fairly certain was her father and the hunter from before who looked to be only a few years older than Laeta. “Everyone, this is my father Galhel and my cousin Hiren.

While everyone else introduced themselves, Dorian found himself struggling not to stare like a slack-jawed moron. The elf at Laeta’s side, Hiren, was incredibly handsome there was no way around it. Raven black hair tied back into a ponytail and dark hazel eyes, with a smattering of freckles on his face very similar to Laeta’s. While the Inquisitor was willowy in appearance, Hiren appeared more solid, yet had two daggers strapped to his back. His Vallaslin was different too and Dorian was proud to know that his time around Laeta and Solas had proved academic, because he could clearly distinguish the symbols for Falon'Din. While there weren’t a lot of physical similarities between the two, Dorian couldn’t help but see the relation in the quirk of his brow and the upward tug of his lip as he caught Dorian staring.

Determined not to present himself as a complete fool and destroy what little credibility he had gained, he stuck out his hand to shake, adding a flourish and a charming smile with his greeting.

“Dorian Pavus; Tevinter Altus, long-standing pariah, rebellious archivist and necromancer and general shame and savior to my country, whether they’ll admit it or not.”

It said something that the elven man didn’t react to the information so much as the presentation. He took Dorian’s hand in his. His grip was firm and his touch sent electricity straight up the mage’s arm and into his brain.

“Hiren Lavellan,” he said. “There must be a story behind each of those titles. I’m surprised there aren’t more.”

Oh yes, this man was definitely Laeta’s blood. “Well, I would’ve added ‘walking example of physical perfection’, but that seemed a bit redundant.”

A slow smile spread across Hiren’s face, small but clearly amused, or at least intrigued. Dorian could work with intrigued. He already found himself captivated by those eyes that were expressing something, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what.

“Just a bit,” Hiren agreed offhandedly and Dorian felt a pool of warmth form in his stomach.

He also was suddenly aware of the number of eyes on them, from Laeta’s pleased expression to Krem, Varric and Bull’s matching shit-eating grins, from Cole’s confused yet peaceful gaze to the curious look Laeta’s father was giving them. Luckily the Inquisitor, being the beautiful creature that she was, swooped in to save him.

“We should probably follow Josie. I don’t want to think of what she _and_ the Keeper might do to me if we’re not there for the talks. Bull, want to walk up with us?”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

"Hiren why don’t you have Dorian show you the library before dinner? I know you’ve been dying for a peek.”

Did he say beautiful? He meant evil. Extremely, disgustingly, horrendously evil in the ways only a best friend could be.

“That sounds good to me. That is,” Hiren turned back to Dorian, “if it’s not a bother.’

“It’d be my honor.” Dorian retuned with a bow while his heart decided to attempt the Renigold. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”

“Small chance.” And with another fleeting smirk, the man followed after his cousin, who winked over her shoulder. The witch.

Although, all things considered, he thought as he stared off after the family with Bull in tow, pointedly ignoring the knowing look Varric was giving him to his left. He supposed he could let her off the hook, just this once.


	14. Beatrice "Bice" Trevelyan: Fitting Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bice is back and so am I! Remember how I said Bice was a total mother-figure? Well, here's another chance for me to prove it. 
> 
> She's a good girl though. So well-behaved compared to...other children I don't care to mention at this time (glares at Amos).

They had made camp nearly two hours ago at the edge of Crestwood's vast farmland, which was around the time when Bice noticed that Cole’s hat had a rather large hole in the side and had insisted on mending it for him. After a full day of draining the lake and putting spirits to rest, not to mention apparently changing the region's entire climate, they were due for a rest. Around the campfire they sat, digging into their dinners while Bice stole bites from her own as she stitched a sturdy patch into the worn leather. He’d need a new one before long and the mage was already tracking how much leather she would set aside.

She was done before long, breaking off the remaining string with her teeth and handed the hat back to its owner who promptly sat it right back on top of his corn colored hair. The work had been done quickly, yet efficiently and Bice took up her own plate and listened as Cassandra and Blackwall debated shield techniques around the crackling fire.

Now after two hours the party was about ready to turn in for the night, so Bice turned her attention back towards the spirit boy. He had one hand clutched to the rim of his hat and the other in his lap as he watched a long row of ants on the ground, fascinated with the creatures’ journey.

“How does it feel, Cole? Is it holding together?"

"Yes. Tied and tighter so not to tear. A stitch. A wish of blue like the sky, like his eyes. Such big eyes, such sunken cheeks. He needs to eat more." He blinked, fingers lifting to stroke around the new patch. “I don’t eat.”

Bice’s lips curled into a fond smile.“I know you don’t, Cole. Pay me no mind. I’m glad it’s not uncomfortable. I know how much you love your hats."

Cole nodded, satisfied that there was no hurt. He retuned his attention to the trail of ants, now marching over the log on which he sat.

"Do you always carry a needle and thread, Inquisitor?" Cassandra asked.

"I used to. Back in the Circle, someone always had a rip or a tear in their robes that needed mending."

Cole’s head lifted again, his eyes starting off into the night, voice softening in a tone not completely his own. "Deyrel, pointed ears blushing red, singed sleeve laying warm in my lap, little Rona giggling with every pull. He’s always so careless during his experiments, darling man.” Cole continued even as Bice had frozen. “It's all right. You can miss him.”

“Boy,” Blackwall warned without any real heat. “That’s enough.”

The warrior's reproach was more concern for the Inquisitor’s feelings rather than an actual fear of Cole’s powers. Even so Cole looked suddenly sullen, quietly cowed into guilt.

"I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “Did I tear it?"

Bice shook herself returning to the present though her heart was still sore from memories of days gone by. Deyrel would have liked Cole, of that she was certain. He would have never stopped asking questions and Cole would never stop with his cryptic answers and she would have probably found them carrying on even after dawn broke.

"No Cole, you didn't, don’t worry."

"Not torn, never torn. Just tugged."

“Yes. Are the ants going anywhere interesting?”

He nodded once. “One by one by one by one. The wet is gone so back, back to growing. Deeper, bigger, further. Home will be home again and home will breathe."

After a quiet moment, the woman smiled broadly, eyes crinkling. “I see. The farmers will be pleased, I'm sure. All of that unexpected rain must have damaged the soil."

"They don't know they're helping, but they wouldn't mind."

Cassandra appeared confused, looking between the two of them. Blackwell let out a low guffaw and shook his head.

“Sometimes I mistake you for Solas, Lady Beatrice, what with how well you're able to understand the lad."

Bice raised an eyebrow at her friend. “I’ve told you before that you can call me Bice, Blackwall. You won’t burst into flames.”

"And have Cullen gut me where I stand? I prefer my innards inside my belly, thank you, milady."

She shook her head, forfeiting the losing battle, at least for tonight. One of these days, she really would have get Cullen to take his armor off during his off-duty hours, at least in the tavern or at dinner. Then maybe the fear of addressing the Inquisitor more casually wouldn't seem like such a perilous feat.

"It is impressive, however," Cassandra offered. "Your intentions may be kind, Cole, but I will admit to being left baffled by some of the things that come out of your mouth."

The Inquisitor opened her own to comment, but Cole beat her to it. One minute he had been sitting across from her on the other side of the fire and the next he was at her side, with that ever-present scent of dusty leather and mint filling her nostrils.

“Stop, wait, listen, think. It makes sense even if it’s not clear. Let him get it all out, then put it back together so it makes a shape.”

Everyone stared. Bice reached out tilt the rim of his hat back so as to look at his bang-covered face. He desperately needed a haircut. He and Sera both. "Yes Cole, that's right."

He frowned, looking lost. Looking for the right words. She reached out to take his hand in her own and he didn't let go. “But sometimes the shape doesn’t fit.”

She squeezed his hand and it was so strange to recognize that it was larger than her own. “Even so, you deserve to be heard. I enjoy listening to what you have to say."

Cole studied her face, or perhaps not. Perhaps it was what was inside. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him and he nodded, letting a shy smile bloom on his face.

He squeezed back.


	15. Osira Cadash: My Strongest Suit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Osira's back and looking FAB~U~LOUS~  
> This time, she and Vivienne share a little girl-time and girl-talk.
> 
> Warning for upcoming chapters (though not this one). With ALL the DLCs now released, some future chapters will have spoilers, but fear not! I will warn beforehand. Just like I'm doing now which is pretty pointless since this one is spoiler-less.

Osira stared thoughtfully into the gilded mirror, turning this way and that to better inspect her reflection from every angle. Her face twisted into a scowl as she once again straightened the dragon clasp in her hair that seemed to stubbornly refuse to stay in place.

“Careful, darling. You have such a lovely face, it would a be dreadful shame if you were to lose it to such unseemly expressions.”

Vivienne sat a few feet away, lounging on her fainting couch and fanning herself. Summer had finally come to Skyhold and with it, an unusual heat wave. While some residents welcomed the warmth with open areas and, especially Dorian, expressive approval, others who were less accustomed to the climate change were doing their best to keep cool.

Therefore, the fact that all the balcony windows had been flung open and everyone had either already or was looking to trade their usual vestments for lighter garb was understandable. All except for the Iron Bull, who really couldn’t shed any more layers without breaking certain “societal decencies” as Vivienne had coined it.

“Nonsense, Madame de Fer,” the dwarven woman smirked, turning from her visage and towards her friend, twining a lock of golden hair around her finger. “If faces could truly freeze in place, lovely Cassandra would be walking around looking as if she were constantly sniffing the backside of a bronto. More than usual, of course.”

Vivienne gave out a tinkering laugh. “True enough, my dear. Let us hope the Maker does not see fit to bestow such a curse on _all_ the capable women of the Inquisition.”

Satisfied with the success of her quip, Osira returned her attention back to her reflection. The outfit was a lovely one and exactly suited to both her tastes and her desire for something light and slimming to wear while away from the field. High collared and sleeveless on the top, coupled with long, tight and tailored leggings and calf-high boots on the bottom. Detailed embroidery climbed across the maroon fabric from her ankle, up her thigh and all the way up to her collar. Very little skin was shown, but the clothing had been fitted to Osira's measurements so her bust and waist were properly brought attention to. Dragon webbing and highever weave slid between her fingers from the sweeping sashes over her shoulders and around her waist, clasped fashionably at her side with blue topaz and gold accents as her other hand pulled at her collar. With a new season, came a new wardrobe, courtesy of one court enchanter through equal parts generosity and a shared desire to never again see those beige nightmares the dwarf had been forced into upon their arrival in Skyhold.

The last time she had worn something so fine, her father had been the one to give it to her. However, that had been less of a generous gift and more of a desire to decorate his property.

“Is it really all right for me to have this, Vivienne?” she asked, tugging on one of the new belted straps accentuating her waist. “I know how exclusive your tailor is. As much as I love to stand out, I wouldn’t want you to suffer any backlash for commissioning something for someone so far outside your usual circle.”

She heard the pressure on cushions being lifted and the trek of high heels making their way across the floor before the taller woman appeared in the mirror behind her. Vivienne inspected Osira with a calculated and discerning eye, going up and down once, twice, three times over the Inquisitor before breaking out into a satisfied smile, clearly pleased by whatever her attention had devised.

With nary a word, she reached down and gently tugged the silver dragon clip from Osira’s hair, placing on the vanity and picking up a hairbrush instead and maneuvering her into a chair. The two women spent several minutes in silence while the court enchanter brushed out the waves in the Inquisitor’s hair before collecting the golden tresses and putting them up into a bun, slightly higher than her regular style.

“There,” she said, pulling her hands away. “The Empress herself would do well not to underestimate you.”

“As usual, you perform miracles even without magic, Madame. You’ll have to teach me that trick someday.”

“No trick, darling, simply years and years of practice. Though it always helps when the very thing one is trying to bring into view, was already there to begin with. You’d do well to remember that.”

A bitter laugh escaped Osira’s mouth before she could pull it back. “Oh, I’m well aware of what I can bring to the table. Getting others to admit it, that’s the part I’m still working on.”

Vivienne then reached back over to the vanity and lifted another hair clip, no sweeping dragon this time, but a graceful, jewel-encrusted butterfly and secured it in Osira’s hair.

“One does not need to be born into greatness to be heard, my dear,” she said simply, without any hesitance. They stared into the mirror together, two powerful women with the world stretched out before them. “One must simply refuse to be ignored.”


	16. Amos Adaar: Can't Put A Price On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before and I'll say it again. Amos is a shit. A shit with mostly good intentions, but a shit, nonetheless.
> 
> And I know, you need to let people do things in their own time, but sometimes people need a push. Or a shove.

After several hours, the war meeting was finally coming to a close. Just as well as the sun had long since sunk below the snowcaps of the Frostbacks. All that was left was to reach a decision regarding Professor Frederic's latest request. Apparently after learning of the Inquisitor's 'accidental hobby', the scholar was eager for the chance to conduct a bit of study before Amos could stumble in and slay the local wildlife.

Amos felt himself physically drooping in his seat. He'd lost any real interest in the debate at least an hour ago. Currently the pieces of parchment Josephine had gifted to him for note-taking were filled with sketches of everything from a candle burning hazily on the table, numerous attempts at capturing Dorian’s regrettably absent visage, and finally to his arguing advisors. Speaking of which...

"Sending soldiers to control the area is one thing, but an untrained scholar is something else entirely." Cullen stood as tense as a bowstring, just waiting for someone to come and make him 'twang'. His hand pushed pieces across the map while his other remained ever-presently on his hilt with only minor twitches. A good day then. "The Hissing Wastes are not for the feint hearted."

"I quite agree," Josephine nodded, pushing a lock of dark hair behind her ear from where it had loosened from its usually immaculate style. "Professor Frederic is indeed at the forefront in his field in Draconology, yet allowing him to venture into the creature’s den alone does not seem wise."

Leliana shook her head and removed a number of the Forces from the map, purposefully ignoring Culllen's scowl. "The nest is surrounded by ruins, mostly all at vantage points. Perfect for observing without being seen.”

"But still close enough to be sniffed out!" Cullen protested, Josephine following right behind.

"Dragons do look up, do they not-"

"Ok, ok," The Vashoth mage waved his hands, helplessly signaling for a ceasefire. "Enough 'bearing your blades', you three."

He chuckled as both Cullen and Josephine's faces flushed, while Leliana simply smiled secretly and serenely. One of these days he'd get her to lose her cool. He was way too mentally aggravating for anyone to deal with longterm and he had a reputation to keep.

"Clearly Frederic can't go walking into dragon territory solo, but the man spent weeks studying the Abyssal High Dragon less than a click away."

Amos still remembered that fight. The beast's wings creating sandstorms in its wake, the stifling heat of its breath...

Bull wasn't the only one with an appreciation for dragons.

It also didn't hurt that it'd been his fiery lover who had made the final blow, making its belly to burst open with a timely Walking Bomb. Dorian had complained about the stench for the rest of the trip, but in their tent every night after their victory he would practically _sing_.

Leliana not-so subtly cleared her throat and Amos swiftly brought himself back to the present before he gave two out of three of his advisors an ulcer. He moved one of Cullen's pieces and one of Leliana's over the Hissing Wastes.

"Frederic knows how to handle himself around the big women, but around Venatori, Red Templars and bandits he's out of luck. Why don't we send a few scouts and soldiers along with him to bottleneck the entrance? No one but us or the enemy would be dumb enough to try to get in and we're the only ones who are coming out alive."

Cullen rolled his eyes, but Amos only shrugged and allowed smug superiority to radiate. It wasn't bragging if it was true. "Our people handle any trespassers and the Professor is free to do his thing until I get there."

The three humans were quiet for a moment before the Commander stepped forward.

"Better than sending him in alone," the man agreed. "Our soldiers from Griffon Wing Keep are experienced in a desert climate and are familiar with Frederic. I'll have Rylan distribute them."

"I will do the same with my agents," Leliana added.

"I'll be sure to inform the Professor of the decision," Josephine finished, marking the situation as finalized on the map and finally ending the discussion.

Amos fell back his chair, hands behind his head and lounging lazily. 

"Great. Now that that's over with, let's wrap this up before I find a better use for ol' lefty here then closing rifts." He spared a glance at Leliana, ignoring Josie's scandalized gasp and Cullen's muffled chuckle.

Nope, nothing. Damn.

"Of course, Inquisitor," the former bard smirked, probably reading his mind. She was scary like that. "Do you have any last orders?"

Resisting the urge to pout, Amos quickly skimmed the map before reaching out and giving a mark a tap with his index finger. "Leliana, let's give your friend Zevran some cover for finishing off Lord Enzo. Fifth Blight veterans do their best work in crazy situations, right?"

"In the right company," she nodded. "Did you have anything particular in mind for the distraction?"

"Surprise me."

"Of course."

After another look at the map, Amos gestured to Orlais. "Josephine, can you handle the Dowager's request? I like the idea of claiming the Basin, but if we're going to dance, I'd rather we choose the song."

"As you wish, Inquisitor."

"Good. Also, if you can make sure our 'thank you' can't possibly be mistaken for a marriage proposal, I'd appreciate it."

Josephine opened her mouth, possibly to claim that such an assumption would would _never_ be made, but then seemed to rethink herself and closed it again.

"I'll be sure to word it accordingly," she admitted, making a note on her clipboard.

"My life is in your hands, fair Ambassador," Amos teased with a deep flourishing bow from his chair, before nodding towards Cullen. "You on the other hand Commander... you're going to have yours full for a bit, sorry."

"No rest for the wicked." A sly smile crossed the former templar's face. "I'm ready to serve."

Sweeping up a number of documents, the Inquisitor started listing them off before handing it to the man in front of him. The quicker this was done, the sooner they could all go to bed.

"Michel de Chevin is ready to begin his officer's training. He also mentioned a Chevalier Ducet who wants us to send soldiers his way to help with demon attacks. Apparently the Imperial Army has trouble staying on task when the throne decides to tear the country apart. Who knew?"

Amos handed both requests over to Cullen, who browsed them quickly. Easily managed.

"Also, Mia wanted me to let you know that she's sent a new coat to replace your furs after I informed her that _yes_ , you _do_ practically sleep in them, but getting you to wear anything un-Ferelden just seems wrong. Like, Bull-wearing-a-shirt wrong. Which reminds me, send some troops to gather more veridium in the plains for armor repairs. Our people don't need to look like Serault cheese."

"Consider it-wait, what?" The reports had slipped from Cullen's hand, but he didn't seem to notice, fixing the Vashoth mage in front of him with a bewildered expression, jaw dropped. Knowing looks passed between Josephine and Leliana across the table.

Amos sighed, his attention already drawn back to his sketches now that the official items were no longer in danger of being passed back to him. "I know, I know... It's way too shiny for scouting, but it's great against wyvern teeth."

“No, not that. What was that about Mia?"

The Inquisitor shot him a look, keeping an impressively straight face. “Mia? Your sister? Two kids, another on the way? Enjoys Ferelden beer, Antivan poetry and the color blue?  _Impressive_ curse word vocabulary."

“Yes, I know who she is! What I don’t understand is how _you_ do.”

Amos looked at Cullen as though the human had grown a second head. "You mentioned her over chess. Plus you left her last letter on your desk. You really should learn to lock up your valuables, Commander. Some people have evil intentions."

The amount of reproachful innocence in the Inquisitor's tone was disturbing, but Cullen forced himself to focus for now.

"So _you're_ writing to her?" He purposely ignored how high his pitch had reached.

The Inquisitor on the other hand, looked as though Satinalia had come early.

Being a big and scary looking asshole only worked so long as people didn't realize that most of the time you liked the people you messed with. Eventually they caught on to your fondness, and worse started feeling fondly towards you themselves, thus their reactions quit being as entertaining.

Cullen's though. Those would never get old.

“Well, you weren’t getting around to it, so I figured why not?"

Amos gathered up his drawings, leaving the official documents to deal with later. He spared a look at his friend and shot him a teeth-filled smile and a wink. "Don't worry, Cullen. It's mostly just reassurances that _yes_ , you're still alive and _no_ , you haven't accepted any marriage proposals from the Orlesian nobility and if you had, you would've run it by me first, so I could let her know so she would be able to make the wedding."

With that, the mage swaggered out the war room and let the door fall shut behind him.

Cullen slumped into his seat and covered his face with his hands, defeated. The ladies, now freely giggling, echoed through the chamber. Giggling that reminded him too well of a childhood where an especially meddlesome and nagging sister had lectured him on eating his vegetables. A sister who was apparently now friends with the one and only hope for Thedas and technically his commanding officer.

Who would probably keep up this correspondence until Cullen took over, he got bored, or Mia herself showed up on Skyhold's doorstep.

“Maker’s breath…” This was not what he had signed up for.

Suddenly the door squeaked open again and Amos popped his head back in. “Oh, I almost forgot," he called. "She also says to eat your carrots and I quote: 'make sure he is getting his sleep, even if you must tie him to the bed'. Not a bad idea, really."

The Commander's face turned as red as his pauldrons and Amos shut the door before he could say a word, chuckling all the way down the hallway.

Priceless.


	17. Mai Lavellan: It Counts, Correct?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back! Sorry it's been a while, but unlike on the internet where everything is stagnant and simple...*pfft* Yep, couldn't keep a straight face even in text form... See what you people do to me?
> 
> Anyway, I'm bringing back Mai again. This one gives more insight into Mai's behavior, which I will be revealing more and more. I'm not giving it all away just yet, but suffice it to say I've never written a character like her before. She's different and wonderful and I hope to whatever karmic power out there that I'm not butchering what I'm trying to do here.  
> Only time and research will tell, I suppose.
> 
> On with the show!

“—And finally, Lady Alara is demanding answers regarding the… colorful manner in which she was treated by the “help”.”

“Of course she is.” A level of patience tempered with years of experience dealing with both an aggravating Antivan ‘royal’ family and her own, was quite possibly the only thing that stopped Josephine from rolling her eyes and letting out a long stream of breath.

“Thank you, Odette. Please inform the baroness that we will reimburse her for the gown, however the elves are members of the Inquisition, _not_ her personal entourage. I will speak with her regarding her conduct, hopefully before Sera manages anything _more_ creative.”

“Right away.” Her assistant gave a short bow and exited Josephine’s office, leaving behind a looming stack of papers on the desk.

The day was a slow one, all things considering, restoration efforts nearly completed upon the Inquisitor’s most recent return from the field. Allowing herself a brief stretch and a glance outside to check the time by the dipping sun, Josephine organized her tasks into whatever daylight still remained. From her altered position however, she noticed a slight figure she had not noticed before, tucked into the darkened corner of her chambers by the doorway.

The figure moved ever so slightly and startled, Josephine nearly let out a shriek before she realized just who it was that lurked in the shadows.

“Inquisitor! Goodness, you gave me a fright.”

The Inquisitor stepped slowly out into the open. How she had managed to remain unseen by Odette upon her departure was a mystery, but one that was unlikely to ever be solved. “I apologize. Hello Lady Montilyet.”

The light from the fireplace helped Josephine properly take in the elf’s appearance, from her short, shaggy red hair to the long trailing scarf she constantly wore around her shoulders.  Her arms were wrapped tightly around her middle, a familiar gesture the ambassador recognized. Leaning forward in her chair, Josephine donned her least threatening body language as she considered the small woman who seemed to be trying to make herself appear even smaller.

From her few one-on-one interactions with Mai Lavellan, it was obvious that their Inquisitor was inexperienced with most social situations, regardless if the task was court intrigue or simply speaking to a peer. From what Josephine knew of the Dalish, which was sadly too little in her opinion, Mai’s duties as First of her clan had kept her fairy excluded from day-to-day life. Adding this to the elf’s own lifelong demeanor, well it was no wonder she was so uncomfortable initiating a casual conversation.

“Inquisitor, I would like very much if you called me Josephine,” she requested.

Mai blinked, head cocking to the side slightly. “I see. Hello Josephine.”

She hadn’t loosened her grip on herself, much to Josephine’s disappointment, but to her credit, whatever nerves Mai may or may not have, they did not allow her to fidget. She stood firm and true and was now staring the ambassador directly in the eyes, looking less and less like a trapped animal.

“Hello Mai,” Josephine gave the Inquisitor a warm smile. Perhaps less formality would allow a feeling of safety to form. “How may I help you today?”

“There is an abandoned library that exists mirrored to where you are now seated, directly beneath these tiles,” Mai began abruptly, barely allowing Josephine to complete her quarry. “There are a great number of books hidden out of sight that have long been without proper care and a knowledgeable individual to take advantage of their contents.”

Josephine blinked a few times herself, waiting for any hint of a request, but Mai seemed to have finished and was now looking at her expectedly.

“You… wish to have the downstairs library?” she clarified.

Mai inclined her head. “Yes.”

Confusedly, Josephine pressed on. “Is the main library not suitable for your studies?”

As though distressed that she’d been possibly misunderstood or offended with her words, Mai shook her head from side to side rigorously. “It serves its purpose well,” she insisted. “There are many books and much to learn, but…”

Josephine waited patiently as the elven woman searched for the right words to express her thoughts. Finally, Mai decidedly untangled her arms from where they were wrapped around herself, slowly raising them to cover her ears with both hands.

“I cannot think within such noisy accompaniment.” Her volume rose considerably and Josephine, to her credit, did not flinch even slightly.

‘The library is too loud?”

Mai nodded, lowering her hands and thankfully not returning to her previous defensive position, her arms now hanging loose by her sides.

“Sister Nightingale’s birds, runners coming and going, and Dorian and Solas yelling at one another about quantum magical theory and Solas’ clothing choices.”

“Oh my,” Josephine sighed. The ravens, she had been expecting even if there was little she could do about it. Skyhold was enormous and there were plenty of empty towers, but the Avery was still the most appropriate place for Leliana to work, for others’ accessibility as well as its size. Master Solas and Lord Dorian however…

Well, there were some things that no amount of diplomatic training fully prepared you for.

“I… can understand why that might prove distracting.”

“Yes. Dorian reacts positively to any healthy debates I propose and Solas responds well to my seductive measures, but never at the same time…” The elven mage sounded honestly perplexed by this, and Josephine fought a very powerful urge to giggle as though she were a young girl again.

Mai’s navigation through the art of relationships, both romantic or otherwise, was an ongoing process and one the whole of the Inquisition had, at one time or another, been an active audience member to. To call her efforts awkward was an understatement, but nevertheless the Inquisitor had taken to the task of building bonds with as much determination as she did her studies, sometimes combining the two to form… interesting results.

There weren’t many who could consider traipsing through the desert to decipher ancient Dwarven runes a successful romantic outing, after all.

Luckily, Solas seemed to be the sort of man who could appreciate her odd courting attempts.

Lord Varric and Lord Dorian on the other hand, were likely to suggest a trip to the Tavern for their next team building exercise. An event whose results Josephine both anticipated and dreaded in equal measure.

“—Therefore, the library is a pleasant location for consultation, but not to work. Downstairs is quieter.”

Mai had finished her explanation with a satisfied nod, drawing Josephine back from where her musing had swept her away. What she assumed had clearly been a long and well-thought out speech had apparently come to a conclusion, leaving the ambassador fairly apologetic that she had drifted off during. Mai gazed at her with enormous brown eyes

“May I have it? …Please?” she added the ‘please’ on as an afterthought, but Josephine could still clearly see what it meant that she was asking permission.

Technically, Skyhold was now property of the Inquisition and as Inquisitor the castle was now hers by extent. She could go where she liked and very likely take what she liked without having to run it by any of her advisors or Cassandra at all. An unspoken belief the elven mage seemed more than content to accept without question up until now. It wasn’t a sense superiority that usually drove her actions after all, but more of her single-minded focus towards an ever present thirst for knowledge.

It was touching that Mai was beginning to concern herself with the thoughts and feelings of those around her. Likely no one would have objected to the Inquisitor taking over the smaller library, but it gratified Josephine that she had wanted to be certain before pressing forwards with her plan.

“I don’t see why not. It seems a shame to let all that knowledge continue collecting dust.”

A tiny flash of a smile appeared on Mai’s face. “Thank you, Josephine.”

That the smile was gone as quickly as it came, with a more familiar expression of passivity taking its place, didn’t matter much to Josephine who took the brief occurrence as a rare, but wonderful gift and felt more determined than ever to see it more often in the future. After all, what was the point of being a diplomat if she couldn’t keep those she worked with happy?

“You are quite welcome.”

Mai inclined her head and started toward to door to let herself out while Josephine set to give her attention to Lord Williamson’s continued requests for aid. A sudden thought had her head popping back up and her hand rose to catch the elf’s attention before she was fully out the door.

“Oh, Inquisitor? Would you like me to find someone to assist you with the cleaning efforts?”

“No thank you,” Mai called out. “Cole and I already finished yesterday.” And with this matter-of-fact statement she was gone, her footsteps echoing as she made her way down the adjacent stairwell.

Shaking her head, Josephine relaxed back into her chair and let out a soft sigh, retaking her quill into her grasp.

Well, she _had_ asked even is she hadn’t asked _first_ , correct? The ambassador was still counting it as a success.


	18. Hiren Lavellan: Silence, Not Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while everyone! Finals were hell, so I had to take a break in order to be a "responsible adult" for a bit. *shudders* Not fun.
> 
> Anyway, I'm back and this time with my hybrid happy accident, Hiren. This chapter exists in the universe where he became Inquisitor instead of his cousin, Laeta.
> 
> This is basically a character study with a little holiday easter egg if you can spot it (I wasn't that sneaky about it)
> 
> Enjoy the chapter and your holidays everyone! I might, not promising, but might post another chapter sooner rather than later as a kind of Holiday/New Year treat!

The soft scraping of a paring knife was one of the only sounds that could be heard over the soft crackling of the fire. Small blade in hand, Blackwall inspected the indent he had finished whittling into the wood, right there, at the arch of the griffon’s neck. At long last, the carving was beginning to take on its proper shape.

He bent in and blew, scattering the leftover shavings, before leaning back again and giving his work an affectionate pat. At this rate, he’d finish in time for Satinalia. The children in the camps deserved a treat, what with the world going to pieces and all.

Suddenly, there came a sizable sounding crash from above, followed by a hushed spew of angry Dalish.

 _“Fenedhis,”_ hissed the floorboards above his head.

Blackwall chucked and turned his gaze upwards.

No smoke. That was a good sign.

“Will you be needing the big tongs or the small ones?” he called up.

There was a short period of shuffling and clanking before a much calmer voice answered.

“Big ones thanks.”

Blackwall turned his attention towards the fire, where a number of tools had been laid out across the straw, soaking up the heat from the blaze. The grizzled warrior quickly found what he wanted and made his way up the stairs to the loft, the chaotic mess that was meant to be his sleeping quarters coming into view.

Stepping carefully over and around various metal gears, springs and the occasional strange metal box, Blackwall made his way over to the elven man sitting in the center of it all. The Inquisitor was looking particularly annoyed, albeit resigned to his temporary fate. One hand was kept clutched around his wrench, while the other, his fabled left was caught between the tight grasp of his latest contraption’s steely jaws. Blackwall could see the mark’s green glow shining through the teeth.

Knowing better than to make a joke, he simply passed Hiren the tongs and awaited further instruction.

“Thanks,” Hiren said, swapping out his tools. “Could you hold that piece over a bit? Make sure it doesn’t swing back when I separate the jaws.”

Blackwall did as he was asked and for a few minutes, all that could be heard was the hum of steel rubbing against itself and the collected breathing between both men. If he listened very closely, Blackwall could just make out the light bustle from Skyhold’s impromptu market place and the rare shrill from one of Leliana’s message birds.

The stables had been by far, the best place in Skyhold for Blackwall to make his lodgings, as well as pursue the odd hobby or two. They were secluded, undisturbed by runners and quiet aside from the occasional snorts and shrieks from the mounts. To be honest, it was because of these qualities, as well as some personal reasons of his own, that Blackwall had chosen the barn to stay in, in the first place.

When they had first arrived at Skyhold, Josephine had offered to put him up in one of the nicer rooms, right above the gardens. He’d declined, insisting that such luxury accommodations were better served housing dignitaries and visiting nobles. After so many years on the road, sleeping in tents, the occasional run-down inn and Maker-cursed caves, Blackwall’s standards for living had fallen pretty low. After all, what more did a man truly need other than a roof over his head, a warm place to sleep and the occasional easy access to the kitchens?

Apparently their Inquisitor had felt the same way.

No sooner had the elf been shown his chambers, he’d gathered up his assorted odds and ends and fixed himself up in the barn’s loft, making it his unofficial workshop. Somewhere removed where he could tinker in peace, inventing new traps and improving a few of the classics.

Blackwall held tight to the contraption as he watched the slighter man adjust the tongs, slowly prying open the jaws.

“I’ve almost got it,” he murmured. There was a quiet click and finally, the trap sprung open. “There we go.”

Finally, the Inquisitor was able to pull his hand to freedom. Blackwall didn’t know whether to be amused or not when he didn’t give a single thought to his injuries and instead chose to inspect the trap, checking for any warping in the metal.

He waited a few minutes, but when the hand started dripping blood, the warrior knew he needed to say something.

“Might want to get that looked at,” he said, drawing Hiren’s attention.

The elf glanced down at his appendage and shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

“It will be if it festers. Then you won’t be able to hold the hammer, let alone your daggers.” When Hiren still looked doubtful, Blackwall tried a different approach. “Come on. I’ll wrap it for you.”

He turned around and started back down the stairs. A sigh, a creak in the wood and a steady footfall that told him Hiren had decided to follow. Plopping himself down onto one of the many hay barrels laying about, the younger man waited silently for Blackwall to retrieve a roll of bandages from his knapsack. After giving him a fixed look, Hiren wordlessly held out his hand for inspection. Blackwall cradled the marked hand gingerly as he looked it over back to front, taking care not to focus his attention too much on the mark protruding from the palm. Hiren already got enough of that from Solas and Madam de Fer and probably even Dorian on more than one occasion.

If there was one thing Blackwall could understand, it was unwanted attention for something you couldn’t even rightfully claim as your own.

The injuries were nothing serious. A few minor punctures covered the back along with some scrapes, but otherwise the Inquisitor’s hand seemed no worse for wear. He applied some poultice to the exposed wounds and bandaged them up.

Hiren didn’t say a word throughout the process, but Blackwall couldn’t say he minded very much. He considered himself a creature accustomed to solitude, and Hiren Lavellan seemed to be of a similar sort.

The Inquisitor was a man that didn’t waste his words, preferring a comfortable silence to stumbling over awkward chitchat. How that remained true when he spent a great deal of his personal time with Dorian, Blackwall would never be able to guess. Nor did it answer why he spent so much of his desperately needed alone time in a secluded, but not abandoned barn loft instead of his completely private and near silent chambers.

Blackwall cautiously considered himself one of Hiren’s closer associates, but even now there were times where he just couldn’t understand the elf’s thoughts.

“There.” He tied the bandage into a secure knot. “That should do it.”

Hiren pulled back his hand and flexed it a few times, a thoughtful expression on his face. He met Blackwall’s gaze and nodded his head.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said plainly, but sincerely.

Blackwall broke his gaze and tried very hard not to think of how very much he did _not_ deserve to be addressed in such a way. Friends were not supposed to lie to one another.

“It was nothing,” he huffed, distracting himself by stashing away the bottle and roll back into their bag. “Just keep that on for a day or two. Should clean up just fine by then.”

Hearing nothing, Blackwall assumed his advice had been acknowledged with a nod and that Hiren had made a swift exit, possibly to the kitchens before returning to his tinkering. When he turned around though, the rogue was exactly where he’d left him, giving Blackwall a look that perfectly matched the title Cassandra had given him.

“Have a drink with me,” Hiren said finally. Blackwall blinked, but after a few moments of indecisiveness, nodded. If the Inquisitor seemed surprised or suspicious by Blackwall’s hesitancy, he didn’t let it show and pulled a bottle from behind the hay, where he’d apparently been hiding it for such an occasion.

He passed Blackwall the bottle and the warrior took the time to examine the label.

“Golden Scythe 4:90 Black?”

“Dorian says it was a good year,” Hiren shrugged.

Blackwall chuckled. He may not have gotten on very well with the pompous ‘Vint mage, but there was no denying the man knew his liquor.

The two men passed the bottle back and forth between them, with the occasional comment or question breaking the companionable silence every so often.

“What exactly were you making up there?”

“Better bear trap.”

“Helpful. Considering, well…”

“It still needs work.”

A full hour passed. Hiren, damn him, still looked utterly sober, despite matching the older man drink for drink. With each sip however, Blackwall felt his head getting lighter and his tongue getting looser. Finally, he felt the words that had been circling around in his brain, come out of his mouth.

“Why d’you spend so much time in here. With me…?” he asked, his words slurring just a little. He was pleasantly drunk, not sloshed out of his mind, so the words had time enough to register, even if they did make him cringe when he saw the confused look on Hiren’s face.

“I mean…” he tried again. There was no going back now, but at least he might be able to avoid looking like a complete fool. “I’ve seen where you sleep…”

Too late.

“Plenty of space to work… No one would bother you, no one would be too loud. So why…?”

He trailed off when he saw that Hiren was still looking at him.

“Am I bothering you?” the elf asked, a note of concern in his voice. “Do you not want me to work here anymore?”

“No!” Blackwall practically shouted, though Hiren to his credit didn’t even flinch. “No, no it’s not that. I just… know your privacy’s important to you. That’s all.”

The warrior turned his attention back to the fire, downing another gulp and enjoying the way it burned down his throat. Anything to distract from the feeling of shame and self-loathing coiling in his gut. A man like him didn’t deserve friends and it was moments like this, moments that revealed what kind of scum he really was, that even when he knew it to be true, it still didn’t stop him from wanting them.

After a few moments that felt like hours, the Inquisitor finally responded.

“It’s just a lonely ivory tower,” he explained. “I like the quiet, but I’m not too fond of silence.”

Blackwall looked back at him. The bottle was swiped from his hand and Hiren raised it in a lazy salute before taking another long sip of his own. Against his better judgment, Blackwall felt a chuckle bubble up and escape his lips.

It made sense, he supposed. Hiren didn’t dislike talking, or people in general. He just saved his words for when they really mattered.

Here, they both could be close enough to assist should a crisis break out, but far enough away from prying eyes. Little noises, such as the flames crackling, the mounts snorting, feet and hands shuffling, and hearts beating.

There was something to be said about quiet companionship, after all.

There was no need for either of them to be alone, just because there was nothing that needed to be said.

At least for now.


	19. Darsc Cadash: Communication is Key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> *ducks to avoid the pelted tomato*  
> Yes, I know it's been awhile!  
> *dodges the fish*  
> Yes, I know I said I would try to update in January!  
> *dodges the cheese*  
> Yes, I know I'm awful, whimsical writer with no clear updating schedule at the mercy of my moods!  
> *dodges the banana*  
> Ooh, yum. Thanks!
> 
> Anyway, I'm back again and while I hope to get another one out next month, I'm making no promises because final semester is nerve-wracking. Still, I do have something for you, so please enjoy!
> 
> Darsc is back and look! He's growing as a person! I'm so proud! He'd probably ignore me forever for my gushing, but that's the plus side of being a writing mother. Your kids don't call anyway, so you can embarrass them as much as you want~

Varric was not a man unaccustomed to attracting his share of glances. As the lone dwarf in the Champion’s merry band of misfits, and now one of the few amongst the ragtag Inquisition, being noticed was unavoidable. If his height didn’t do it, the crossbow strapped to back did the trick, and no one alive could resist his chest hair when it was staring them straight in the face.

So, yes, Varric could understand a bit of scrutiny. Still, there was nothing appreciative or admiring or even inquisitive in the constant and pointed staring from their recently named Herald of Andraste.

Darsc Cadash’s gaze felt less like curiosity and more like having knives constantly trained at your back; uncomfortable, understandable at times, and a little eerie to boot. As far as Varric was concerned, he’d left things on a relatively affable note with the man. Granted, Darsc seemed to be a guy of few words, but Varric had become pretty fluent in grunts and grumbles from spending time with Broody and the Seeker, so he felt as though he would know if he’d said something to set the Herald off.

When caught in conversation, Darsc was an attentive listener, a perfect contrast to Varric’s storyteller’s mouth. He asked the odd question, replied with little more than a nod and single-syllable answers and always departed on his own time with an unreadable expression on his face.

Yet almost every time Varric opened his mouth outside of their personal chitchats, whether to tease the Seeker or complain about the weather, nearly every time he looked up from his writing around the campfire or a mug of ale in the tavern, Darsc would be watching him with that intense look on his face. No one else seemed to have earned this sort of treatment and the rogue was beginning to wander if he should start keeping an eye open while he slept.

He found himself bringing up the topic with Solas after Varric found himself sharing a late-night watch with the elven mage. The Herald and Cassandra had long since turned in for the night, as had a majority of the Inquisition’s scouts. It was just the two of them, the dwarf poking at a slowly waning fire in the middle of the Hinterlands and the elf sitting across from him, buried in a tome.

“You know,” Varric began, catching Solas’ attention if the twitch of his ears was anything to go by. “Really, it should be you getting the extra shadowing, not me.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“Think about it,” the dwarf teased, putting on his storyteller face. “An elven apostate who just _happens_ to be nearby when the sky splits open, who just _happens_ to know the right tricks to keep the only hope for Thedas alive, who just _happens_ to decide to stay and help, even though this is probably the last place any sane man, mage or not, would want to be when the world is going to shit.”

Solas eyed him with a slight quirk in his lip and acknowledgement in his gaze. “You have a keen eye, Master Tethras.”

Varric spread his arms wide and finished with a slightly awkward semblance of a bow, given that he was sitting on a log. “What can I say, Chuckles? This stuff, you can’t just make up.”

“I am here because until the Veil is mended, nobody is safe, regardless of their origins. If my talents and knowledge happen to be of some help, then it’s all for the best.”

“See, it’s no fun if you get all noble on me,” Varric sighed, kicking a pebble into the crackling flames.

Solas smirked and turned his eyes back to his book, “But to respond to your previous statement; perhaps if you spoke to him about your concerns, the answers may prove more enlightening that you think.”

The dwarf sighed and scratched his head.

“Have I ever mentioned what a pain in the ass you are when you’re reasonable, Chuckles?”

Solas let out a low chuckle and turned a page.

Despite Solas’ sound (albeit irritating) advice, Varric didn’t approach Darsc with his questions right away. A long haunt through the Hinterlands with rogue Templars and rebel mages and bears, bears, _bears_ all trying to kill you wasn’t the best place to start up a real, honest conversation. In fact, they were so focused on not trying to die, that Varric barely felt the Herald’s stare at all, aside from the occasional glance during battle. He might’ve dropped the whole thing right there, chalked everything up to trust issues that must have been settled after so much fighting side-by-side.

Except that once they were back in Haven, the looks and glares, and the watching picked up again as though it never stopped. If fact, it seemed even worse. Varric even caught Darsc at it a few times, but unlike all the times before, the other dwarf hadn’t looked away, but seemed transfixed until Varric waved a little and snapped him out of it. Then the warrior would stalk off toward the training field and Varric had no doubt some poor, hapless recruit, or hopefully a training dummy was about to pay in axe strikes for the embarrassed flush in Darsc’s cheeks.

After one more week of constant monitoring, Varric had had enough.

Catching their imperious leader watching him _once again_ from across Haven, Varric excused himself from a _riveting_ discussion about trade manifests and blighted Orlesian merchants with Seggrit and made his way over to Darsc with a cunning smile slapped on.

“Now, not that I don’t understand the fascination and I’m definitely flattered, but you should know my heart’s already taken. Bianca’s a jealous lady.”

Darsc, who had apparently not expected to be called out on his actions, said nothing and just looked at him with a rather boggled expression on his face. Like Varric had just expressed a sudden desire to travel the seas and become a pirate.

Damn, he missed Rivaini.

Still, without breaking stride, Varric continued. “Or if this is about teasing Cassandra about her love life, I promise I wasn’t trying to antagonize her.” His fellow dwarf’s brow arched and Varric quickly amended. “Well, yes I _was_ , but only a little. I would’ve stopped before she hit me.”

“Doubtful.”

Varric usually counted it as a small victory whenever he got Darsc to actually open his mouth, and even more so when whatever came out resembled something like a sense of humor. Right now though, adding to the tally would have to wait.

“Well, if it’s not a desperate, passionate longing and it’s not turning the Seeker fifty shades of purple, then I’m lost. I don’t know what I did, but can I fix it?”

If Darsc looked boggled before, now he looked completely lost. “I don’t know what you mean…” he frowned.

“You’ve been watching me,” Varric explained, deliberately gesturing to himself. “Ominously. I’ve caught you at it a bunch of times, though I know it’s happened more than that.”

The dwarven warrior flushed, whether from embarrassment over being caught or for the act itself, Varric couldn’t say. On a man with a whole mess of fancy face tattoos and twice as many scars, it was a weird look. He carried on regardless.

“I just wanted clear things up, so I don’t wake up in a dragon’s den someday. I don’t know about you, but-”

“I’m not angry at you.”

He paused. Darsc was staring at him again with that same old gruff frown, but he seemed… different. Resolute.

“You remind me of… someone I know,” the warrior explained, carefully and with rarely used words, but he seemed determined made his point. “A friend. A good one.”

Varric suddenly remembered how Hawke had been, when she wasn’t hiding behind plastered smiles and awful jokes. When she dropped her near constant façade long enough to speak honestly, before she built up her chipper walls once more so the blackened sorrow wouldn’t reveal itself. In those short, rare moments she’d struggled, but Varric still couldn’t remember a time where she’d seemed more honest.

“A friend, huh. Must’ve been a pretty great guy if he’s got you putting another face with this chest hair. Handsome too.

Darsc let out a short, solitary “Ha!” and crossed his arms, letting his eyes wander out the main gate and down toward the training ground. Cullen would be having the troops in sparing session right about now, while the new troops were surely biting back their complaints as they took their places before the training dummies. Before you taught a man to fight with a sword, first he had to learn how to swing it.

“He was a nughumping bastard with the collective ego of Orzammar and twice the shit,” he snorted. “But he always had my back and was good in a fight, even if he liked to let his _charms_ and his _coin_ do the talking instead of his steel. I owe him, and I doubt he’ll ever let me forget.”

Varric felt his draw drop. That was probably the most involved thing that had come out of the other man’s mouth since they met. Where had _this_ guy been hiding and how many drinks would Varric have to buy him to make him come out more often. Still, he quickly pulled himself back together. No good to look like an idiot, even with history in the making. By the time Darsc looked back at him, Varric was reasonably sure he was projecting ‘curious handsome rogue’, rather than ‘off-guard idiot.

“Well,” Varric said. “I guess I don’t mind getting the evil eye if it’s because of a little homesickness.”

Darsc held up his hand to stop him and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have made you feel uncomfortable. You’ve been… kind.”

Back to short sentences, it seemed, but Varric wasn’t deterred.

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Have a few drinks with me at the tavern once in a while, maybe a game of Wicked Grace and we’ll call it even. I’ll even pick up your tab.” Darsc nodded, but he still looked pretty doubtful. Varric sighed.

“Look, I know you’re not exactly the ‘shoot the shit’ kinda guy, but since you’re already here, it might be good to get to know the people you’re working with. Maybe make some friends. It’s better than just standing menacingly off to the side and burning us all with your dark, bedroom eyes.”

Darsc’s face fell back into the heavy frown lines it seemed to favor, and for a second, Varric was sure he was about to be left high and dry, though the wet snow around them would make it difficult. Instead, Darsc gives him a firm nod and without any other warning, walked away.

The rogue stayed frozen for a moment before he broke out into a cheeky grin and called after him, “I’ll see you tonight at sundown! Bring your coin purse!” Darsc didn’t turn around, but the lack of a slouch in the other dwarf’s shoulders told him enough that he wouldn’t be drinking alone tonight.

Varric had an inkling that maybe he’d just been given a real hint at why it was _this_ dwarf that everyone chose to follow. The guy wasn’t a big talker, but when he did speak, it counted. Plus, he had an wily side to him that he didn’t seem to want to acknowledge, but it was definitely there. The glowing hand was probably more than a bonus, but still… With a little time and the right company, who knows.

They may make a proper misfit out of him, yet.


	20. Tu'la "Tully" Adaar: The Gift of Timing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blinks into existence, the very picture of a shamefaced writer*
> 
> So... I graduated.  
> ...Oh, and I got a job. Two in fact.  
> ...  
> ..........
> 
> In my meager defense... George R. R. Martin takes 6 years to add a novel to his series!!!!!
> 
> *throws a smoke bomb and vanishes like a ninja*
> 
> Have some awkward walk-ins as my gift to you!   
> Damn, Tully, gurl you gotta learn how to knock! Not everyone appreciates your ninja ways like they do mine!

Normal people understood the purpose of a closed door. When one encountered a closed door, especially if said door led into someone’s personal chambers, it was typically a sign that the occupants were either not there or preferred not to be disturbed. At the very least, normal people had the common courtesy to knock first before entering.

But then, the Inquisitor was not a normal person.

Whether it was all her years trained as an assassin, the unconscious instinct to make as little noise as possible, or just plain absentmindedness nobody really knew. However, within the first week or so of the Inquisition’s relocation to Skyhold, it quickly became clear that if privacy was something you required, locking your door was imperative.

Failure to do so resulted in… incidents.

Incidents like a female Qunari, the Herald of Andraste, and really, the closest thing a rebellious Altus could call a tried and true friend, walking in on you while your male lover, who was _also_ a Qunari (and really what did it say about his life when such things were true), had you naked, needy, and tied to the bedposts.

All in all, a fairly typical night for Dorian Pavus.

That is, if he ever managed to reach the point where sex with the Iron Bull ever felt _typical_. Much like anything else about the man.

Not that he was dwelling on that _now_. How could he when the Bull had him stretched out across the mattress, his enormous hand wrapped deliciously around Dorian’s cock, stroking him in time to slow, thorough thrusts. He was whispering filthy suggestions and sweet praises into the mage’s ear and Dorian could only lay there, bound by red silk as his body was assaulted by the best form of torment imaginable.

“That’s it big guy, let it out,” Bull growled softly against his ear as he gave another sharp thrust. Another whimper forced its way past Dorian’s lips. “Fucking gorgeous, all tied like a present. Just for me…”

The longer this went on, the more Dorian realized that he was losing more and more control of his mouth. The longer Bull prolonged the sweet torture, any helpless moans he might’ve once tried to silence, now met no resistant unlike the limbs that pulled tightly against the red silk.

“Ah! Bull, please... Please!”

Of course, that was when the door flew open. Of course...

 _“Venhedis!”_ Dorian jerked away from his lover’s embrace, though his current position didn’t give him much room to go.

Tully Adaar strode in, large as life, clutching a number of important documents in her hand that Josephine had surely thrust on her unwillingly. “Bull, I need to talk to you about the Chargers mission tomorr-oh.”

“Hey, Boss.”

Tully blinked and then squinted her eyes at the couple entangled on the bed, looking at them with about the same amount of scrutiny she would give an unusually colored stone. It seemed to be about as much of a dramatic reaction as she felt the situation was called for.

“Should I come back later?” she asked after a moment.

“Oh _no_ , _please_ do come in!” Dorian bemoaned, and he would have thrown up his arms if they weren’t already above his head and bound. “In fact, why not invite the whole blasted keep? Bull, be a dear and put another log on the fire! I’ll just throw on my best dress robes and fetch the seedless grapes, shall I?

Bull, being the absolute _shit_ that he was, paid absolutely no verbal mind to Dorian’s outburst, though he did have the kindness to stop moving and start rubbing soft circles into the mage’s hips instead. “Probably be best, Boss. I just bought these curtains.”

Dorian gave him a sharp kick to the arse, thanks to its conveniently placed position wrapped around the larger man’s waist. “ _Vishante kaffas_ you great oaf, that was _one_ time!”

Tully, with her natural straight face, simply nodded before turning around and exiting the way she came. “I see. We’ll speak in the morning then. Goodnight Bull, Dorian.”

The door shut behind her and the Bull’s attention was turned back onto his bedmate, who’d thankfully worked past livid and mortified and had settled on just plain embarrassed. Dorian’s cheeks were still red and his pout was still prominent, but at least he wasn’t looking ready to burn through his restraints anymore

“You ok?” Bull asked.

“If one can classify, ‘positively mortified,’ as ‘ok’ then yes, most certainly. I expect the entire tavern will being telling the tale of the fearsome and diabolical Magister for years to come; waking the dead with his screeching octaves and brought low by the poor timing of his romps,” Dorian bit out, before feeling a wash of guilt pass over him at the positively sheepish and far-too understanding expression on the Bull’s face. A face that fearsome in battle should not be able to look so… so… ugh!

“Truly, I’m fine,” he said sincerely, finally meeting the man's eyes for the first time since they were interrupted. “It by far not the worst way I’ve been interrupted mid-coitus. Much more preferable to being yanked out of bed by guards with no time to even fix my hair.”

“Personally, I think the freshly-fucked look works for you,” Bull teased, gently knocking their foreheads together. “Very natural.”

“Beast…” Dorian nipped at the Bull’s chin. “No respect for the finer things.” Despite the now relative ease of the air around them, any lingering desire Dorian might not have let drain from him at the sudden and unwelcome arrival of a third party, still showed now signs of returning as his headspace cleared enough to remember the relative earliness of the evening and number of patrons probably still drinking below.

Bull seemed to understand and pulled out without a word, and went to work untying the impressive knots keeping him in place. Embarrassed as he was, Dorian wasn’t so distressed as to not let his lover take care of him. He let himself relax into the mattress as his hands were free, the stiffness in his joints was rubbed away, and his sweaty hair was smoothed back from his face and forehead. Finally with a sigh, he sat up, but didn’t bother pulling up the sheets for any false presence of modesty.

“Still, sorry about that,” Bull said, one hand, large and warm, supporting Dorian at his back. “I should’ve locked it.”

Dorian shrugged and allowed himself to relax against the headboard. “Seems that’s something all of Skyhold is struggling to remember. Ah well, there’s always next time.”

He focused very hard on rubbing more feeling back into his wrists and not all in order to avoid looking up at Bull, who he was certain was smirking knowingly at the words, ‘next time.’ Mercifully though, the Bull let the comment go and merely stretched out to lie beside him on the bed, hands pulled back to rest on his massive chest. The larger man's erection had deflated at this point as well, and Dorian felt a twinge of regret before he felt himself being pulled down onto the mattress and close enough that the mage could hear the Bull's steady heartbeat beneath his ear.

“Hey, if it makes you feel better, this was just the once for you. It’s not like it’s the first time she's caught _me_ with my pants down.”

Dorian’s eyebrow arched and a rueful grin slowly began to spread across his face. “What’s this?” he teased, trying and failing to seem like he wasn’t positively melting into the Bull’s warmth. The great lug had no business being quite so comfortable and he flicked a gray nipple for good measure. “How much of the Inquisition’s dirty laundry has our illustrious leader had the misfortune of seeing?”

Bull smirked and lowered his hand to give Dorian’s ass a quick squeeze. “Well, there was that time in the stables, twice on night watch, once on the battlements, three times in here, plus all those times in my tent back in Haven when she came by with questions about the Qun. Never seen a Chantry sister turn so red.”

Dorian’s brow lifted “Oh really?” He wasn’t blind to his lover’s previous escapades, and he was hardly innocent as Elfroot himself, but even so. To be interrupted that many times….

“Yeah,” the Qunari nodded. “It’s why I thought she wanted to ride the Bull at first, all the times she walked in. I mean, who makes that many mistakes if they’re not trying to get a peak at the show, but–“

A short, but piercing screech cut him off, followed by the sound of several items hitting the side of a wooden wall after evidently being chucked across the room. Based on the continued thumps, whoever was throwing things was evidently missing their target. At the same time, they heard Sera begin yelling bloody murder.

_“Fuck Quizzy! Din’nit no one ever teach ya to knock? Now Widdle’s all pink!”_

The tavern outside their door erupted into raucous laughter, mixed with a healthy addition of unintelligible swearing from one seriously miffed elf, stammering from a flustered dwarven arcanist, and confused apologies from one "divinely touched" Qunari. Bull glanced down at Dorian, who looked up at him in the same instant, before both men lost themselves in a fit of laughter mixed with several bellowing guffaws and a number of inelegant snorts and giggles. Their naked bodies rocked with their mirth as the din was mirrored below them, even louder.

Amidst all the roars and chuckles, tearing eyes and heaving chests, Bull still found the time to smooth back Dorian’s hair again and gasp out, “Turns out, she just has really, _really_ shitty timing.”


	21. Kendra Tevelyan: Facing the Tiger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> *cricket noises*
> 
> Wow, tough crowd. Hey, I did say I was done making promises I couldn't be certain I could keep, right? This is an improvement for me! This is personal growth!
> 
> *cricket noises*
> 
> Yeah, yeah...
> 
> Regardless, I'm back with a page out of my sweet Kendra's book. I sometimes get her and Bice's attitudes confused when I write, but then I remember Kendra has that whole "fake it 'til you make it" vibe and the internal screaming going on, so that helps.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Solas?”

The elven mage glanced downwards, his brush still poised to finish the crest of the Empress’s mantle in gold and yellow hues. From up on his high perch he saw Kendra Trevelyan standing below him at the ready, hands folded neatly behind her back.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you have a moment?”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he replied, putting aside his pallet and brushes before carefully making his way down the ladder to her. “What can I do for you?”

Kendra nodded, almost more to herself then to him, but did not answer him for a moment. She seemed to be struggling to find the words, which came as a surprise to Solas who had always taken the Inquisitor for a sure-tongued individual considering, or rather in spite of, her noble upbringing. Eventually she gestured toward the exit that led out onto the battlements.

“Would you walk with me?” she asked.

Solas arched a curious brow, but made no objections as he followed her outside and into the midday sun. The brisk mountain air pulled a long breath from his lungs, clearing his sinuses of the scent of oil paint and aged parchment. Other than a courtesy meal and his regular and nightly delving into the Fade, it had been a while since Solas had stepped outside his study for anything besides a mission with the Inquisitor and he felt every one of his long, _long_ years quickly and quietly take roll off his body as the tension released.

Kendra noticed the way his shoulders relaxed and smiled at him.

“It would seem I arrived just in the nick of time. When was the last time you took a break, Solas?”

“As you know, Inquisitor, when one is preoccupied with preventing the destruction of the world, simple pleasures often go neglected. However,” he fixed her with a deadpan stare, though the amusement was palpable in his tone, “based on tales I’ve been told of last night in the tavern, you seem to be making up for them.”

Kendra’s cheeks reddened considerably before she proudly and quite impressively declared, “One of these days, Sera is going to replace the water in your canteen with Dwarven ale and I am going to laugh when you fall on your head and start serenading spirits.”

‘If she only knew,’ Solas thought to himself, but he kept his silence as they continued their way along the battlements.

The pair walked in companionable silence, Kendra nodding at the odd one or two guards who passed by them and paused to salute. They passed through Cullen’s office, of which the commander was currently absent from, and continued along. The Inquisitor was still wearing the same worried expression from earlier on her face, evidently stalling for a point when some spirit would leap through a rift and re-grant her the power of speech.

Solas let out a sigh before breaking the tension, “Inquisitor, while my journeys into the Fade have unlocked many secrets, they have sadly not given me the ability to read minds.”

Kendra stopped short, her eyes wide and she let out a rather unladylike snort-of-a-laugh that she quickly tried to masquerade it as a cough. He continued, not missing a beat.

“If whatever it is that’s troubling you weighs so heavily on your mind, then perhaps here and now would be the best time to let it go.”

He glanced over the side of the battlements and down into the abyss below. “By my estimate, it should travel for quite the distance.”

Kendra stared at him and Solas watched as a smile crept across her face. Her entire posture transformed from unsuitably hunched, uncomfortable and awkward, into one that was much more preferably calm, composed, and in-control. The world had done much to the youngest Trevelyan, with more still on the way before any… mistakes could be fixed. Better that she not let herself be brought low by inconsequential insecurities, especially if she was basing them on _his_ reactions.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I suppose I was hoping that there would be a way to ask this without sounding like a complete simpleton, but…” she shook her head and tucked a loose tendril behind her ear. “Apparently not.”

Solas maintained a rather unimpressed expression, but the corner of his mouth did twitch upwards. Just once.

That was better. There was no need for all this shame and embarrassment when it was just a simple matter of–

“I want you to help me get over my fear of magic.”

Well.

“All my life, it was always assumed that if I hadn’t been married off by the time I was of age, I would either join the Chantry or the Order. I’ve spent so much of my life training to fight magic, but…” Kendra let out a frustrated huff. “That training has also birthed an unhealthy fear of it. It can’t continue.”

It would seem that they were _talking about it_ now.

Her discomfort wasn’t as much of a secret as she may have liked it to be, at least not to Solas. He still recalled the naked fear on the young woman’s face the first time he had grasped her marked hand and thrust it towards a rift. That same fear, while less extreme, still lingered whenever Solas lit a torch of veilfire or summoned a barrier. The other mages in their party had also surely noticed it. For all of her many faults, there were few shrewder than Vivienne, and Dorian was far too aware of the effects his presence caused not to notice the unconscious flinch the Inquisitor made every time he levitated a book to his chair from across the library. Around Cole it was even worse, and though she did an commendable job of tampering down her reactions whenever the spirit was near, Cole was not such a being that her unease and disquiet could be hidden from his gifts.

Now that same woman stood before him, an embarrassed flush raised high on her cheeks and looking positively furious with herself.

“We’re fighting demons from the beyond, combating an immortal darkspawn magister, and stumbling across ancient elven magic at every turn. Being afraid of everyday displays of magic and proven allies on top of all that has never been more foolish or energy-wasting!” Kendra paused, frowned, and collected herself before continuing. “In my head I know that, but I can’t shake it on my own. I need your help, Solas.”

“Why not ask Dorian or Vivienne?” Solas asked. “They are both talented practitioners of the arcane and I’m sure they would be happy to help alleviate your fears.”

Kendra was quiet for a moment, giving the diplomatic illusion of considering his words, but it was obvious her mind was already made up the moment she continued the conversation. “You're not wrong, but I don't think the results of those lessons would bear the best fruit,” she said with a smile that would rival Josephine in manners.

“Dorian is exceptionally skilled and a dear friend, but he’s too impatient,” she explained, smiling whilst rolling her eyes. “Knowing him, his ‘beginner level’ would likely start with a field of undead and a giant fireball.”

The memory of the Inquisitor’s last mission into the Fallow Mire flashed through Solas’ mind and he couldn’t help but find himself agreeing.

Kendra continued, “I respect Vivienne, but she would have me hone my fear as a weapon, not rid myself of it. While I understand her reasoning, I’ve already been trained in that way. No,” she shook her head and looked directly to him. “I need a different sort of lesson and I need a teacher with the staying power to do it.”

Solas said nothing as he considered the human woman in front of him, hands clasped military style behind her back, patiently waiting for him to either accept her odd request or send her away to find someone else.

Humans were predictable. Most people were, but humans especially. While there was something to be admired in their passion and strength, it was constantly being squandered due to their lack of wisdom or finesse. Humans never seemed to learn from their mistakes and what’s worse; they were constantly denying they existed.

To be fair, the same could be said of him, but that was a dark mirror Solas did not wish to stare into, at least not today.

However, Solas had seen the letters on Kendra’s desk – all addressed to House Trevelyan and yet never sent, but never fully abandoned either. He had spotted her early training sessions the morning after a particularly severe battle with one too many close calls. He’d noticed the tension behind all of her gracious smiles, curtsies and ‘how do you do’s’ at the Inquisition’s last social function. He knew she had luncheons with Vivienne, drank with Dorian, and took walks with him when what came from their dreams, haunted her nightmares.

The Inquisitor despised her own failings like they were manifestations of Corypheus himself. What’s more, she attacked them with all the vigor needed to fell a dragon and all the care required to navigate the Orlesian court. He had never met someone so aware, so ashamed, and yet so prepared to drag herself, kicking and screaming, into the light if it was necessary, despite her discomfort.

It was admirable. Admirable and worrying.

After a long pause and a sudden gust of autumn wind made Kendra drop her composure and rub her arms for warmth, Solas finally let out a sigh.

“Handpicked by the Inquisitor to dispel her childhood nighttime horrors – an arduous task, but an important one surely.

“Does that mean…?”

He couldn’t hold back a slight smile. “Inquisitor, if my knowledge and instruction may be of some use in aiding you, then I would be happy to help.”

Kendra beamed and bowed. “Thank you, Solas,” she said as she rose. “I put myself in your capable hands.”

“Of course. When would you like to begin?”

She bit her lip and made a considering, humming noise under her breath. “Would it be terrible if I said now? Or at least as soon as possible?”

He found himself chuckling, despite himself. Admirable _and_ worrying indeed. “How does after three bells sound? It will give me time to prepare and you the chance to dine before we begin."

Kendra nodded eagerly as they began to head inside, “Sounds perfect. Should I bring anything?” Her body was still clearly thrumming with nerves for what was to come, but her voice was steady – a good sign.

“Just yourself, Inquisitor. An open mind, perhaps some patience…” Solas said thoughtfully.

“I’ll be sure to fetch them from my quarters,” she teased now that he had accepted and apparently the pressure was off. Solas wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that asking him had been that nerve-wracking. “No fireballs?” she asked as she held the door open for him, a minor hint of trepidation in her voice.

“Not for lesson one,” he replied and stepped inside.


End file.
